The Intergalactic Games
by Flight of the Mockingjays
Summary: Far in the future, the people of Panem face off against other worlds in the Intergalactic Games, a brutal competition in which only the survivors of the winning team can go home. Will they stand as one, or will the Games leave them broken? Katniss/Peeta/Gale
1. Chapter 1 Prim

Chapter One

Prim sat at the base of the bed, staring hollowly at the tiny TV screen. _It's only one slip, _she told herself, pulling the coarse sheets snugly around her body. _One slip in thousands. _

Her sister had more slips. Twenty this year, and the odds were still considered low for Katniss. _I should've taken the tesserae so she wouldn't have to. I was selfish. _

In the kitchen, separated from the bedroom by a paper-thin wall, the collision of wood against metal alerted her to activity in the kitchen. From the smell in the air, she could only assume her mother was making stew from the rabbit Katniss had shot last night.

Prim's stomach snarled, as hollow as her heart. The Intergalactic Games were only a few weeks away, and the Reaping was this afternoon. Her first Reaping.

She shivered.

On the television, the High Council had convened. There was a representative from each of the alien planets, plus one for the regular Earth humans. President Snow was just stepping up to the podium to make his pre-Reaping announcements when her mother called from the kitchen. "Prim, come and eat before you have to get ready."

"Coming, Mom." The girl hurried to the kitchen, almost stepping on Buttercup before reaching the table. Despite her carelessness, the cat trotted over and pressed his furry face against her ankle. Buttercup's body vibrated with his purr as her mother set the rabbit stew in front of her. "Katniss caught this yesterday?" Prim verified, keeping her voice low, as if Peacekeepers were just going to bust down their door for her sister's daily poaching.

Her mother, a harried woman who'd once belonged to the miniscule merchant class of District Twelve, turned to her, seeming frazzled by her question. "Yesterday . . . Yes, that's right."

Prim bit her lip. _What must it be like, knowing both her children are at risk now? _She turned back to her stew and buried a spoon in the brown mush, bringing it to her lips. It had been a few weeks since she'd gone hungry, a few weeks since Katniss had returned three days in a row with nothing more than a squirrel and two fish, and though they had enough stored now to hold out for several days should Katniss return empty-handed, the memory of hunger was enough to make Prim's table manners falter. She shoveled the stew into her mouth as if it was the last meal she'd ever eat.

_If Katniss gets Reaped, it might be._ She shook off the thought. Even with the tesserae, the odds of her sister being chosen were minimal.

The stew was good—much better than the stuff they sometimes got from Greasy Sae in the winter. Everyone ate better on Reaping Day, when they could. It was a last meal of sorts, though only two families would have to shut their windows and weep for their lost children, siblings, friends.

Earth hadn't won the Intergalactic Games in years. According to Katniss, humans just weren't equipped to deal with their alien competitors, particularly unmodified humans like those who lived on Earth. _Like us, _Prim added mentally, scraping the remaining chunks from her bowl and letting them slide down her throat. When she was done, she got up and walked her dish over to the sink, where her mother was washing dishes. "Aren't you going to eat, Mom?"

Her mother glanced down at her. Her face was thin, though not quite as ragged and hollow as it had been in the months after Dad had died. "No . . ." Her mother seemed to retreat within herself. "I'm not hungry right now."

Prim frowned. Mom ate when Katniss was around, but apart from that, she seldom took food. Sometimes, Prim wondered whether she denied her hunger out of guilt, or because she didn't want to take food from her daughters' plates. "Mom, you have to eat."

The woman shook her head, engrossed in wiping a spot from one of the dishes. "No, not right now. I'll eat after the Reaping, I promise."

_That _was typical, too: delaying the inevitable. But pushing her would've likely made her shut down even more, and Prim didn't want that, either, so she let it go.

"There's an outfit for you on the bed. The yellow one."

Prim hurried to the bedroom, wondering when her mother had snuck in and left clothes for her. Two outfits sat at the foot of the bed, carefully folded. Prim recognized the smaller one from Katniss's first year at the Reaping, but the other one was new to her. _Mom's old clothes, _she realized with a jolt, running her hand down the silky fabric. From the size, the blue dress had to be for Katniss.

Prim shuddered, thoughts scattering in different directions like roaches from the light. _Mom never brings out her old clothes. Is Katniss going to get Reaped? Why do I have to wear the oldest stuff? _She shook her head to clear it, plucking the yellow blouse and dotted skirt from the bed and stripping her pajamas off. The fabric moved like water over her skin, so maybe this was one of her mother's old outfits, after all. _I'm being ridiculous. Neither of us are going to get Reaped._

But someone would. Two people, two kids. Perhaps someone she knew. But not her or Katniss. Of course not.

The door creaked open. Midmorning light poured into the house, too bright for this dark day. Then, like a dark-haired angel, Katniss stepped through the door, holding the camouflaged duffle bag she used to store game. It slid across the rotting wood of the floor as she dragged it.

Prim darted over to her sister. "Katniss!"

Her sister scooped her up in her arms as easily as she might've picked up Buttercup. A rare smile crossed Katniss's face as she set her down. "Prim," she said. "Guess what I brought."

Prim closed her eyes, standing on her tiptoes as if scanning the universe for some mystical answer. "Strawberries?"

"Guess again."

"Rabbit?"

"Nope." Katniss's voice rose with something like excitement. _Something from the Hob, maybe? _

"Um . . ." Prim opened her eyes, sinking down to her normal height again. "I don't know."

Her sister pulled a pale, yellowish lump from her game bag. Prim gasped. "Bakery bread!"

"Got it just for you. Gale and I did good this morning. Bring this to Mom."

Prim took the loaf, tracing her thumbs over the crisp crust with a sort of wonder. Since her sister did most of the trading, and because such foods were so rare in the Seam, the bakery bread was a luxury. The last time they'd had it had been on her birthday, when Katniss had hunted dusk till dawn and traded for the quality bread.

Then again, this occasion wasn't a celebration so much as an execution. Multiple winners were allowed, of course—as opposed to the previous system, in which only twenty-four human tributes participated and only one came out alive. Rather than individual victors, they now had winning teams. If Earth managed to win, any survivors on the Earth team could return home as heroes.

Those that didn't survive returned home as corpses.

"Mom made rabbit stew," Prim said, returning to Katniss. "Do you want some?"

Survival had always been a priority with Katniss. Unlike their mother, Katniss never turned up an opportunity to eat, even when food was abundant beyond the fence, as it was this time of year. So her sister sat down with a bowl of rabbit stew and downed it as if she wasn't saving room for bread.

"Primrose," her mother called. "Come on, let's do your hair."

She hurried over to the chair where her mother had set up a veritable gold mine of hair products and makeup. It was perhaps her mother's one indulgence, the one thing she asked for on those rare days where they had enough money to spare for such frivolities.

"Tuck in your tail, little duck," Katniss called to her as she crossed the room. Blushing, Prim stuffed the back of her blouse in her skirt, quacking like the duck she'd been labeled as.

Her mother's fingers were deft with her hair, coiling it into twin braids like the braid Katniss usually wore for hunting. Prim closed her eyes, just letting her mother's hands dance over her scalp, focusing on the sensation instead of what she was preparing for.

When Prim heard her sister crawling into the little wooden washtub, though, fear crept in where calm had been. Her breath came quicker, her fingers curling around the edge of the chair as her mother continued tying knots in her hair.

_What if I _do _get Reaped? _

"I don't feel so good," she whispered. Her mother's hands paused, then continued braiding.

"Just a little longer, all right?"

She bit her lip, tasting iron against her tongue. Her sister's voice pierced through the silence. "You won't get Reaped."

"But Katniss—"

The sixteen-year-old knelt down in front of the chair, her gray eyes severe. "You won't get Reaped," she repeated, her voice clipped. "And even if you did, I wouldn't let them take you away. Understand?"

Prim's eyes burned with nascent tears. _How? _she wondered. _How could she keep me from the Games if they called my name? _An ache bloomed in her throat, like the precursor to a respiratory disease. "Katniss . . ."

Another smile, this one pained. "Don't worry about a thing, little duck. You've only got one slip in there. Your odds of being picked are so slim, there's no point in worrying about it."

"I know, but . . ." A tremor choked off her words, the tears finally leaking from the corners of her eyes. _I can't do this. I can't go into the Reaping. I'm useless. _She sniffed, as if that would suck the emotions back inside, where they belonged.

Katniss rested a hand on her head, still smiling. "You won't get Reaped. I promise."

Prim managed to nod. "Okay . . ."

Her sister stood up, her pale blue dress trailing behind her like a mermaid's tail, and walked over to the door. "Ready to go?"

Her mother wrapped a hair binder around her left braid, then freed her hair. Grateful for the chance to stand, Prim rose from the chair and wiped her arm across her still-moist face. "Ready," she said hoarsely.

"All right, you two." Her mother offered them a brittle smile. "I'll be watching from the edge of the square. Stay strong."

The words seemed almost meaningless, on this day where hearing one's name meant a brutal death. It was as if she was saying it because she couldn't say, "You'll be fine."

"Come on, Prim," her sister said, extending a hand toward her. She hurried to catch up, then took Katniss's warm, callused hand. Katniss was always warm, as if there was a fire burning inside her that spread out and reached for her skin. Prim kept close, pressing her side against her sister's to harvest some of that fire for herself, in case her name was called, in case she had to go into the arena. _Fire warms, _she thought. _But fire also kills. _

The air was warm, but not unbearably humid. If it had been any other day, Prim might've looked forward to walking through the middle of town, might've looked forward to stopping by the bakery and admiring the elegant, frosted cakes they'd never be able to afford, or smelling fresh fruit they only purchased for special occasions. If it had been any other day.

Instead, they stood in a line of tight-packed bodies, some reeking of unwashed rags, some so drenched in cologne and perfume that the air rolling off their backs clogged her trachea. Heat radiated from everyone's skin, mixing with the sour smell of sweat, until the air turned putrid. It was almost a relief when they reached the line where the Peacekeepers pricked their fingers to account for their presence.

"Line up with the other twelve-year-olds," said a Peacekeeper with an ashy gray mustache, just as he jabbed the needle into her index finger. Prim bit her lip, the sudden pain bringing fresh tears to her eyes. She hesitated, waiting for her sister to do the same.

Katniss showed no pain, showed no emotion at all. Her face was closed off, like a street barred by Peacekeepers, and all the warmth had faded from her expression. In that moment, she was not the kind, maternal figure that had provided for them for years, but a hunter, skilled and stealthy and focused.

"Let's go, Prim. I'll take you there."

Prim winced at the robotic quality of her sister's voice, lowering her eyes to the pavement. Katniss towed her along until they reached the far end of the plaza, where the other twelve-year-olds stood, heads down, eyes hollow. "Stay here until I find you," Katniss said, dropping her hand. "I'll meet up with you when it's over."

_I have to be strong, _Prim thought, nodding once as she tried to hold back another round of tears. As soon as her sister disappeared in the throng, Prim's heart started racing, blood pulsing under the surface. Her breath came in ragged pants, like air being pushed through a hose. She barely heard it when the mayor started reciting the updated Treaty of Treason. According to her mother, it had been edited years ago, when the humans-only Hunger Games had been changed to the Intergalactic Games. There was a bunch of stuff about the uprising of the districts, called the Dark Days, as well as new additions made regarding the formation of the Intergalactic Alliance and the subsequent Intergalactic Games.

When the mayor finished reading, Effie Trinket, this year's escort for the Intergalactic Games, stepped up to the podium. Several minutes passed as she trilled about her joy in being here, until Haymitch, the only remaining District Twelve survivor of the Intergalactic Games, staggered up to her and wrapped a hairy arm around her shoulders. Prim stared, distaste warring with the butterflies in her stomach until she felt like she was going to throw up.

"Ladies first," Effie announced, fixing her wig as several people pulled Haymitch to the back of the stage. The words snapped Prim back into focus, and she looked up to see the Capitol woman flounce over to side of the stage and stick one hand in the drawings spheres.

_Not me, _Prim prayed. _It can't be me. Katniss promised. _

Effie pulled a single slip of paper from the glass sphere and walked back over to the microphone, unfolding the slip as she went.

_Not me. Not Katniss. Not anyone I know. Please . . ._

Effie smiled and spoke into the microphone, her voice as clear and sharp as a bell being struck. When she spoke the name, Prim's knees buckled under her, like wood splintering under a heavy load.

In the silence of the plaza, Prim started screaming.


	2. Chapter 2 Clove

CLOVE

Clove knew what the problem was: there was simply too much blood in her body. She could feel it throbbing across her temples, making her limbs heavy. Excitement boiled her blood with tension, then subsided, leaving her blood to thicken once again. Reaping days always lasted too long.

She had never seen much blood outside of its fleshy casing. In training there was always the occasional gash, or nosebleed, but never anything too drastic – Career tributes were far too precious for that. Of course, training children was illegal. Even for Career tributes. Even when the pride of the whole of Panem – no, the whole of Earth – rested on one's tiny shoulders. But that didn't stop Clove.

Her whole family had gathered to watch the broadcast; the Reaping was something to enjoy. Not that there had been much to celebrate in recent years. Each of Clove's older sisters and brothers had reached nineteen and missed their chance, went to work in the stone mines or, if they were lucky, trained as Peacekeepers.

But Clove would never be a stone cutter, just as she would never be a Peacekeeper or produce a brood of squalling babies. She would not grow old in this insignificant village beside the mine. This was Clove's truth. Awaiting her were fame and fortune, and, above all, honour. Clove: the girl who rose, like a phoenix from the ashes, to bring glory back to Earth. Maybe this is was what all Career Tributes believed, but none, perhaps, with more conviction than Clove.

The broadcast began. It never failed to impress that they could beam the picture over so many light years, and still have it emerge looking like it did all those billions of miles away, in that high- ceilinged room in the centre of the galaxy.

President Snow took to the stage. Earth had invented the Games, spread them across the galaxy; it was only right to let Earth open them.

"Welcome, my extraterrestrial friends," he began. Clove gave a silent laugh - Snow had made his first joke. The Intergalactic Games had only been invented as a method to drain the other colonies' time and resources, preventing them from destroying humankind. Why go through an expensive and sluggish war, when you could gain immediate power and stature by having your children kill theirs? And, better yet, have it broadcasted across the entire galaxy?

The cameras panned the audience. The Swamp people were the easiest to spot. They always insisted on wearing suits to these events, but could never wear shoes. Their webbed feet sat in troughs of water, and occasionally they would reach down and splash their face with the cool water, soaking everyone in a three-seat radius.

Snow continued, his speech highlighting the importance of the alliance between the planets, and the continuing growth of their relationships with each other. It almost made Clove sick.

One of her sisters' babies began wailing, cutting across the sound of Snow's words. Everyone turned and glared.

"Get that baby out of here," her father said. Some things were more important than family.

Her sister gathered the baby in her arms and fled the room. The door slammed shut, cutting off the din of the child.

"Thank goodness," her mother said.

"And now, for the moment you have all been waiting for," Snow continued. Clove wondered how he must sound to the aliens. Each race was fitted with a chip so you could understand the other languages, but the speed of your mouth opening an closing didn't change with the sound. He must have looked strangely out of sync, having his smooth English mutilated to match the guttural tones of the Neanderthals and the other species. "I am overjoyed to announce that the theme for the 74th Hunger Games will be, 'There is no place like Home'. Make of that what you will – I will leave you now to begin your Reapings."

The television displayed Snow descending from the podium, and cheerfully shaking hands with some of the officials, before cutting to the studio in the Capitol, where Caeser Flickerman was enthusing about the Games.

Clove didn't have time to watch. She had to get ready for the Reaping.

An hour later, she descended the stairs, looking resplendent in a long teal dress. It was classic and comfortable, something she would be proud to represent Earth in – none of that high-fashion Capitol rubbish.

Her father looked her over and gave one terse nod of approval before escaping the room. Perhaps an onlooker would see this as emotion, but Clove knew otherwise. Her family's last chance at the Games was her. All fifteen years, five-foot-four, one hundred pounds of her. If she was picked, her father would probably groan along with the rest of the audience. Still, they had never seen her throw a knife, and she held that thought dear to her heart.

They used the mine's train lines to get to the Reapings. Each carriage was full of people, and the tension and excitement that had brought with them.

A small girl clung to her mother's side. "I don't want to play the Games."

"I know, sweetheart. You won't have to. Someone will volunteer." Her mother reassuringly stroked the girl's hair.

Clove found the little girl's weakness unbearable. In her mind, there was no excuse. Nor in her father's, who would have beat her for being as pathetic as that girl.

It was a festival atmosphere in the heart of the district. Drums beat and instruments played as Clove queued to enter into the Reaping grounds. This part always took too long, and she could feel the blood coursing around her veins again. Definitely excitement, definitely thrill, not fear – never fear.

They took to their lines and the presenter took to the stage. Each Victor was introduced. Most were pre-Intergalactic Games, back from the good old days, when it was only the Districts fighting each other. District Two had done well then, Clove had heard. No one on Earth ever did well now though. Their only win in ten years had been when the Gamemakers had accidentally put too many plants on the Arena Planet, and the oxygen levels had risen until only the humans and the Red Men, exiles from Earth who now lived on Mars, had been able to cope. Then it had just been a case of whittling the the other planet's team down until one team was demolished, and then the entire victorious team could return home. Both of District Two's victors had returned that year. Clove wished she would have been old enough to enjoy it.

First, the female was drawn. Clove held her breath.

"And our female tribute will be..." The speaker paused, prolonging Clove's agony. "Livie Stone!"

Another year, another disappointment.

Realisation stabbed through her as a shrill cry pierced the air. It was the little girl from the train – she wouldn't want this.

Then a chorus rang out, one that Clove found herself joining. "I volunteer!"

In the Career districts, there was always a second bowl full of tributes, ones that had already said they would volunteer if the Reaped tribute did not want his or her place. It was quicker that way.

"You're all so brave!" squealed the presenter. Clove would've given anything for a knife at that moment: she would have aimed it straight between the speaker's eyes. " Our volunteer Tribute is … Clove Attila!"

Clove could have cried out in joy. This was everything she wanted. She could see the cameraman was trying to find her, so she stepped out confidently into the aisle and began her walk onto the stage. There were hushed whispers coming from all side of the audience. A volunteer normally meant the District got a strong tribute. Seeing a spindly fifteen-year-old challenged that ideal, judging from everyone's reaction. _Let them think that,_ Clove thought,_ I'll have the whole Games to prove them wrong._

She took her place on the stage, and waited to see who her companion would be.

"And the male tribute is . . . Cato Talaith!"

This time, a cheer did ring out from the audience. He was huge and strong-looking, perfect Games fodder.

When he got to the stage, Clove and Cato entwined fingers, and lifted their arms triumphantly for the District, the Nation, and the Galaxy to see. _This is Earth's year,_ thought Clove, _and you would be wise to believe it._


	3. Chapter 3 Gale

GALE

"Katniss Everdeen!" Effie Trinket squealed. The air flew out of his chest like he had been kicked in the ribs. _Impossible. I must've misheard._

A sharp cry broke the silence and Gale knew instantly who it was – Prim. He was also aware of what that meant: he hadn't misheard. His oldest friend, the clever, beautiful Katniss, had just been sentenced to death.

He was suddenly bombarded with images of how she would look in the Games, in her death. He would be watching it live on his television, watching her creep through whatever hell the Gamemakers would condemn her to. He'd know about the enemy lurking just outside of Katniss' line of sight – the cameras would make sure of that. But Katniss wouldn't know. She'd be entirely oblivious as the enemy prepared to attack.

"He's behind you!" Gale would scream at his television, like a sick, twisted pantomime. But she wouldn't hear him, all those billions of miles away. She'd die, and there would be nothing he could do to protect her. And as she choked in a pool of her own blood, Gale would know he had failed her

Katniss looked as alive as ever, as she walked towards the stage. Her blue dress swung around her knees, and her hair was plaited intricately around her head. Each step took her further away from him. He would never get her back. He would never again run through the forest with her, catch a glimpse of one of her rare smiles or watch her eyes glaze over when he spoke about politics.

She had a similar distant look in her eyes now. Most tributes cried or had to be dragged onto the stage, kicking and screaming, by the Peacekeepers, but Gale could have guessed she would never do that. She hated attention - she always had. He remembered her telling him that the best thing about collecting her father's medal was that the embarrassment of being on stage had given her something to think about other than her grief.

She continued to look numb as Effie congratulated her. It was an expression he knew well, especially on Katniss' face. She wouldn't let anyone see what she really thought. _She must be terrified_, thought Gale. But as her steely grey eyes threw a look of contempt at Effie, he understood that he was the only person in the audience who would realize this. She took her place on the podium while Prim sobbed. The Peacekeepers would no doubt take Prim away soon, if she didn't stop.

Then the attention turned away from Katniss. Haymitch, the only District Twelve victor, and complete and utter drunkard, lurched forward and toppled head-first off the stage. The laughter following sounded almost hysterical. Anger consumed Gale. It roared in his ears, blocking out the sound of Prim's screams. His only true friend was going to die for a farce. Anger was good; anger was an emotion Gale could deal with.

Effie looked distraught. Haymitch was ruining all of her carefully made plans, dashing her dreams of one day presenting for a more receptive District. It must have taken all her Capitol-bred skill to plaster that fake smile back onto her face.

"Moving on," she tittered nervously, "it's time to select the male tribute."

Once again she flounced to the corner of the stage, and collected another ticket.

"And the lucky tribute will be... Eryx Blacksmith!"

Gale had never met Eryx – but now he saved his life. He didn't have time to think, he just followed his instincts. He burst through the lines of people before the camera even had the chance to find Eryx.

"Somebody's eager!" enthused Effie down the microphone. "Please Eryx, come and take to the stage."

"My name isn't Eryx," said Gale, determined steps carrying him to the stage as Katniss looked on in horror. "It's Gale Hawthorne, and I volunteer for the 74th Intergalactic Games."

His words were too quiet for most to hear, but they rippled outwards, carried by unbelieving whispers to equally incredulous ears.

Effie gathered herself. "A volunteer? From District Twelve?"

The whispers rose in a crescendo around him, blocking his train of thought. They merged, one into the other, like the swash of a great sea. They didn't matter. All that mattered was the girl on the stage.

The girl who was frantically mouthing, "What have you done?"

Now he sat in a desolate room, waiting to say goodbye to his family. Had he been rash? There simply hadn't been any time – how could he be held accountable for what he'd done when he was barely aware of his actions himself?

A Peacekeeper opened the door. "Your mother is here. You have five minutes."

Then his mother walked in, eyes puffy and red.

"Why?" she asked him. He realized his answer would never make up for her loss.

"I love her, Mom."

"More than you love your own family?"

Gale paused. There was no way to make this easier. "In a different way. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to her."

"And what about when I lose you? How could you do this to us? How are we going to survive without your hunting?." Each question led to another until anger gave way to despair. "But that's beside the point. I love you, Gale. You'll always be my baby. A mother should never outlive her children."

He gathered his mother in his arms. "I'll make it home, I promise. I'll be a victor. We'll all live together in a beautiful house in the victors' village." He stroked her hair in reassurance.

"It should be me comforting you." His mother took his face in her hands. "When did you grow up?"

"When Father died."

Hazelle nodded, "He would be proud of you, Gale."

The long, tense moments dragged on until the Peacekeeper came to remove his mother. She didn't cry this time: she looked like something had vanished within her.

_I did that to her_, thought Gale,_ I stole the life from my own mother_.

He was left by himself, left with nothing but his thoughts. He wondered what Katniss would be doing. Maybe she was next door. He suspected he would have heard Prim by now if she was.

Had he been less exhausted, he would've mapped out the trap that had been laid for him. He had always been good at traps, and he couldn't help but admire another craftsman's handiwork. Given a large enough enticement, a slice of cheese for the fragile mouse, the unparalleled Katniss Everdeen for Gale, and anything could be snared. He knew this much himself. But as he sat in the cold room, motionless, empty of life or hope, an overwhelming thought struck him:

_You have to control your own destiny, or someone else will._


	4. Chapter 4 Rue

Chapter Four

Hot, dusty wind streaked across the stage, stirring clods of dirt and sending them across the platform. Except for the wind, and the forbidding flap of the Capitol flags, there was silence.

Rue stood, numb, praying someone would volunteer to take her place and knowing no one would. When the District Eleven escort, Vivian Lang, asked for volunteers, the only answer came from the arid wind, crooning out a mournful song.

The district governor went on to talk about the honor of participating in the Intergalactic Games, managing to sound enthusiastic despite the fact that the wind sent his hair into disarray no matter how many times he tried to flatten it. _Looks like another dust storm_, Rue thought, watching one of the previous victors take the governor's place and speak solemnly into the microphone. She didn't hear a single word of the speech.

Eight slips. One for her, five for her siblings, two for her parents. Eight slips, because she was the oldest, and the only child in her family who was eligible for the tesserae. Eight slips. Two-thirds the number of years she'd lived. Enough to keep her family fed, however meagerly, every month for the next year. Perhaps a little more, since she wouldn't be around the eat it after this.

"Happy Intergalactic Games," Vivian trilled, voice jumping with her thick Capitol accent. "And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

A team of Peacekeepers closed in, like a box, and escorted her and the other tribute—Thresh, if she'd heard his name correctly—into the old legislative building. As she walked, her legs wobbled like overcooked noodles. Three steps into the building, she tripped over her feet and tumbled forward. Her arms shot out to break the fall, but the impact sent sparks of pain shooting through her wrist.

"You okay?" Thresh asked, extending a dark hand to help her up. Still trembling, she got to her knees and took his hand. He pulled her the rest of the way up, strength evident in every tug of his muscles.

Earth probably wouldn't win the Intergalactic Games, but if they did, it wouldn't have surprised her to see Thresh make it to the end.

_But I won't. I won't be coming back. _

"You've got five minutes," one of the Peacekeepers said. Embarrassed by her inattention, Rue bit her lip and looked up. _Five minutes for what? _

"Right this way," a different Peacekeeper said, ushering her—just her, not both of them—into a small room with a cracked, leather sofa. She stared at the couch for a long moment, as if it was some foreign piece of art. Then, with the caution of a predator approaching its wounded prey, she sat down on the edge of the sofa and stared at the peeling wallpaper.

It felt like hours, though it might've only been seconds, before her family plowed through the door and rushed over to her feet. Her siblings rushed up to her side, embracing whatever parts of her body they could. Their touch stripped away the toughest layer of shock, and she was able to think clearly for the first time in almost a half hour. "It's going to be okay," she choked out.

It was a pleasant lie.

"Of course it will, honey," her mother said, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and pressing her nose to the side of Rue's neck. Rue pretended not to hear the tremor in her mother's voice, or feel the wetness trailing down her skin where her mother's eyelashes brushed against her neck.

"You be strong," her father said. His eyes were wide, and the moment he stopped speaking, his lips clamped together tightly, acting as a dam against the torrent of sorrow he must've been holding back. "Just because you're young doesn't mean you're out of this. You'll come back to us."

"Of course I will," she lied. "I can climb. I can find food. I'll be fine."

"That's right." He nodded once, then joined his wife in embracing her. All Rue could feel around her were the arms of her loved ones. _This will be the last time I'll feel them, _she thought. _I probably won't even make it past the first day. _She closed her eyes, letting the tears slide down her face.

And when she wanted the minutes to stretch on for hours, they dissolved into mere moments, as fleeting as a glowing ember rising from a campfire. Peacekeepers burst through the door and ushered her family out.

"You stay strong, baby girl!" her father shouted.

"I love you, Rue! Never forget that!" her mother screeched.

"Mama, where is big sis going?"

_I'm going away, Fletcher. Your big sister's going away forever. _

The door closed. The last thing she heard was her mother's muffled screams fading down the hallway. "Not my baby! Why does it have to be my little girl . . ."

After a while, there was silence, except for the howling of the wind.

"You've got another visitor," said one of the Peacekeepers, peeking through the door. "Five minutes."

A middle-aged woman slipped through the narrow opening. Bracelets jingled, colliding with each other with every swing of her emaciated arms. "Little Rue."

"Auntie Mae," she whispered. The middle-aged woman wasn't really her aunt, but all the younger kids in the orchards called her 'Auntie Mae.' That was just the way it was. _Because we're family, _Rue thought. _even if we're not blood. _"What are _you_ doing here?"

"I've come to see off my little songbird, of course." Mae's lips turned up in a wrinkled smile. "The mockingjays are gonna be awful lonely without you whistling for 'em every evening."

Rue remembered being stung by a tracker jacker once, while she'd been up in a tree, picking fruit. Her throat had swelled shut, and hives had bloomed all over her body. At least, that was what the apothecary had told her after the hallucinations had stopped, and that was how her throat felt now, too tight to speak.

When she'd been well enough to return, everyone had told her how it was a miracle she'd survived. Not only had she lived through a near-fatal dose of tracker jacker venom, but she'd survived the allergic reaction that had accompanied it.

A miracle. She'd need a miracle to survive the Intergalactic Games.

"Don't cry, child," Auntie Mae said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I been in this world long enough to know giving up don't do you no good. You put your mind to it, you can survive this, too."

"I wouldn't have even survived the old Hunger Games. How can I survive this when the Earth team hasn't won in years?"

"Have faith, little Rue. Have faith." Mae rested a hand on her shoulder. "Don't be afraid. Even if you don't make it, you'll go to a place where you're allowed to eat fruit right off the tree, and where you can climb to the top of the sky and never have to worry about getting stung by tracker jackers or having a branch break under your feet. A place where the mockingjays sing from sunrise to sunset . . . Don't be afraid, Rue. Your time will come, now or later." Mae leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Rue's shoulders. Numbly, she lifted her arms and embraced the older woman.

"I'll try to stay alive," she said.

"Good girl. Now, how does that whistle go again?"

Rue took a shaky breath, then pursed her lips. Her four-note tune whistled through her lips: low, then high, then right in the middle, then a step lower than the first. Four notes, but she knew that, when the mockingjays were around to listen, they became the most beautiful song in the world.

"That's right, Rue. I'll sing it to my little girl so she can announce the end of the work day until you can come back."

Rue swallowed thickly. "Thanks, Auntie May."

The Peacekeepers peered through the door again. "Time's up."

Mae stood and backed up toward the door. "Don't be afraid, Rue."

The door started to close. Mae's face was almost gone when Rue regained control of her vocal cords. "I'm not afraid anymore, Auntie Mae! I'll be back here in a month, you'll see!" Tears washed down her cheeks, cleansing the dust from her skin.

For a while, it was silent. Rue stayed where she'd been sitting, waiting for any other visitors. No one came, until one of the Peacekeepers opened the door and called her to her feet. She stood, stepping into the hallway. Thresh was standing outside, not even bothering to hide the twin trails of saltwater staining his cheeks. He nodded once when their eyes met, as if in understanding. Rue smiled faintly, wiping the tears from her eyes.

A place where the mockingjays sang from sunrise to sunset. All she had to do was remember that, and everything would be okay.

The Peacekeepers ushered them out of the building and to the train station. Instead of the usual, coal-powered trains running through District Eleven, they were scheduled to take the extravagant, fast-moving Capitol trains—the ones she only saw on TV right after the Reapings. Today, the station was empty, devoid even of its usual, meager traffic. Rue wondered if it always looked like this after the Reaping. Had the Peacekeepers blocked off all travelers until they were on their way, or did people simply avoid it now because the people boarding this train would never come back?

She didn't know. The only thing she knew when she stepped onto the train was that when she stepped off it, she would be in the Capitol.


	5. Chapter 5 Peeta

_Author's Notes:_

_We've moved Peeta to District Nine. We wanted to have him in the story, but we didn't want to complicate the Reapings by having additional tributes, as we also wanted to have Katniss and Gale. For the purposes of this story, Peeta comes from District Nine, which is responsible for the production of grain. We've kept most of Peeta's character/backstory the same, however._

* * *

Chapter Five

It was almost peaceful.

Peeta stared at the ceiling of the train car, only vaguely cognizant of the countryside flying past the windows. Across from him sat the female tribute, who was shoving food into her mouth. Her pale blue eyes flickered to him every few seconds, as if she thought he was going to snatch her food away. As if she'd never had enough food to stop feeling hungry.

_She would've been whipped for stealing, but she would've had to steal to avoid starving to death, _Peeta thought, picking a slice of bread from the basket. It was a rich bread, full of nuts and berries. The kind his family might've been baking right now if he hadn't been Reaped this afternoon.

He sighed. If he hadn't been Reaped, he would've been decorating the cakes for display. Or painting, if it had been a slow day and there hadn't been much work for him to do. _No, more likely decorating. The richer families would want to celebrate their children's survival. It'll be a busy day at the bakery._

The other tribute shot up from her seat, dropping her bread roll on the table. One hand flew to her mouth as she rushed over to the opposite side of the train car. Startled, Peeta set down the slice of bread and followed her.

He found her hunched over the sink, retching up everything she'd eaten since they'd boarded the train four hours ago. He stepped inside and pulled her hair back, looking away as she vomited up what was probably the richest meal she'd ever eaten. "You okay?"

Her only answer was to turn the faucet on. Peeta bit his lip, trying to control the nauseous flips of his stomach.

"Sorry," she breathed, running her hand under the water and wiping her face.

"Are you okay?" he asked again.

She leaned back, swaying slightly. Her face was pallid, a thin sheen of sweat reflecting the glaring lights of the bathroom. Peeta released her hair and stepped back; he'd never seen anyone look so ragged. At least, not up close. From a distance, certainly, but distance obscured the subtler signs of suffering.

A moment later, she seemed to return to herself, stepping away from him and averting her eyes. "I'm sorry to trouble you."

He knew that tone. Knew it, and hated it. There had always been a divide between the people who worked in the fields and the merchant class—that much was unavoidable, when the system separated them through occupation, income, and prestige—but it still rankled to hear the bitterness in her voice. It was as if she was asking, _"Why are you here? You're practically a rich kid, how did you get Reaped?" _

"No, I'm sorry," Peeta said, bowing his head and turning away. _I'm sorry I'm not the person you think I should be. I'm sorry I don't understand who you are and where you come from. I'm sorry you have to be district partners with someone you resent. _"Um . . . It's better if you don't eat so fast. Your stomach won't be able to handle it and you'll get sick again."

Her body went rigid, and he caught the look of fury on her face as he glanced at the mirror. He retreated to the dining area and took his seat again. Behind him, he heard the faucet turn on, the door click shut.

As that door closed, another one opened. Wearing a canary yellow wig, Liza Ferris strode into the train car. "All right, big day ahead of us. Oh, where's Rosemary?"

"She's in the bathroom," Peeta said, ripping the slice of bread apart and picking out the raisins. "Are we close?"

"We're only half an hour away," Liza trilled. "Lucas and Hazel wanted me to make sure you two were prepared for your first look at the Capitol."

He nodded. He'd met Lucas and Hazel, officially, right after he'd stepped onto the train. They'd both survived the forty-third Intergalactic Games, making them one of the few pairs of district tributes to ever survive the arena. According to the stories, Lucas had volunteered after Hazel had been Reaped, not wanting his twin sister to die alone. It was all very heroic.

Peeta wondered if they'd expected to survive past the first day.

"What should we do?" he asked.

"Enjoy it," Liza said, voice jumping with her odd Capitol accent. "It will probably be the last Earth city you'll ever see."

Rosemary stumbled out of the bathroom just then, pale and trembling. _She won't make it far, _Peeta thought, then shuddered in guilt. _No. No, that's wrong. All of this is wrong. I shouldn't be thinking about who's going to live longest. I can't forget who I am because of this. _He took a deep breath, shoving another raisin in his mouth. Liza cheerfully explained their situation to Rosemary, while Peeta kept his eyes on his lunch, trying to tune out Liza's shrill voice. It grated on his ears anyway, wearing away at his sanity like sandpaper on his brain.

Everything went dark then. Peeta tensed, wondering how and why all the windows had gone dim. If he looked carefully, he could still see things moving beyond the darkness, but in those moments before the interior lights reached full power, his heart rate nearly doubled.

"We're getting closer!" Liza sang, clapping her hands. She shuffled over to the door she'd entered through, pausing only to throw one last piece of advice their way. "Now, no gawking when we reach the Capitol, you two. We want you to look professional."

_Why? _he wanted to ask. _Because we won't get a chance to look professional once we're on another planet, getting killed by aliens? _

Liza disappeared, leaving them alone. Rosemary walked over to the table, taking a seat across from him and picking up the bread roll she'd discarded earlier. Her eyes focused on his face, eyebrows slanting downward in irritation.

At first, Peeta tried to ignore her glare. Whether she liked it or not, they were on the same team. If anything, they ought to be even closer to each other than to the other tributes, since they were from the same district. But it seemed the district lines weren't the only divide between people, nor were they necessarily the strongest.

Eventually, though, the pressing silence compelled him to speak. "So, the Capitol seems pretty advanced. Guessing from what we see on TV, anyway."

"Yeah." She lifted a glass of orange juice to her lips, never taking her eyes off him.

"You . . . really don't like me, do you?"

"No."

_Smile. People will like you more if you smile. _His lips stretched into a grin as he picked one of the chocolates from the bowl in front of him. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Rosemary opened her mouth as if to say something, then stuck a leaf of lettuce in it instead.

"You work in the fields, then?"

She shrugged.

"Heard that's a rough job. Long hours."

The corner of her lip twitched. She stabbed another lettuce leaf.

_Okay, so she doesn't want to talk about her job. Maybe something else would be better. _"Yeah, I work in a bakery, with my parents. I'd probably be decorating cakes right now if I wasn't on this train, so . . ."

"Well, good for you."

"I always do the cake decorating. Actually, most of what I decorate goes in the front window, for display. We don't get to eat the cakes, though. We only get to eat the stale bread that no one wants."

At once, he knew he'd made a mistake. Rosemary's eyes flashed up to his, her hand coming down on the table with a thud. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have that much? I've seen people _killed _over stale bread. You ought to be grateful."

"I _am_, but—"

"People are starving to death on your doorstep, yet you complain about having to eat stale bread. What's wrong with you?"

He bowed his head. "Forget it."

"No. I don't think I will." She stood up, taking her plate, and started walking toward the door. "I hope all that bread made you strong. You're going to need strength for the Games."

The door slammed.

"And to think people usually like me," he muttered after she'd stormed out.

He kept eating, just nibbling away at all the delicacies spread out on the table in front of him. The warm, buttery bread was just the beginning of the feast. Exotic cheeses mingled with slices of ham, salami, and other meats on a silver platter to his left. Several pitchers of juice sat at the center of the table, containing far too much liquid for half a dozen people, let alone two tributes. He remembered how his mother had raved at his father every time he'd bought orange juice. _"It's too expensive," _she would wail, raising whatever utensil was in her hand at the time to hit him. His father would always counter with, _"It's a special occasion," _or, _"It was on sale." _

For the first time, Peeta found himself missing their bitter exchanges. If there had been any way to trade his place as tribute for his place in the bakery, he would've done it. He probably would've even gone to work in the wheat fields, given the choice. But there was no way out, no court or council he could appeal to, no fairy tale solution or clever escape. Security was one thing the Capitol had perfected; he wasn't getting out of this, no matter what he did.

The train's wheels started squealing. Startled, Peeta's hand snaked out, reaching for anything solid he could hold on to. It was only when light flooded through the windows that he realized they'd reached the Capitol.

Massive skyscrapers reached above his head, their peaks concealed from this angle. Each building had thousands of windows, thousands of rooms and people to fill them. Cars moved up and down the streets, slower than their train, but faster than anything Peeta had ridden in District Nine. When the train slowed enough for him to get a look at the people waiting at the station, he was stunned at their appearances. Green skin, rainbow scales, whiskers, eyes in colors he'd never seen before . . . He'd known the people of the Capitol cared about their fashion, but some of the alterations were just astonishing.

_Liza said not to gawk, _Peeta reminded himself, leaning away from the windows. _But what should I do? How can I inspire these people to sponsor our team? _

Sponsors had been around since the original Hunger Games, but their function and purpose had changed slightly with the advent of the Intergalactic Games. Rather than supporting a single tribute or district, sponsors paid for goods to go to the Earth team. Gifts could still be selected specifically for certain tributes, of course, but once it was sent off to the arena planet, it was up to the team to decide who could get the most use out of the gift. So if someone was skilled in a certain weapon, their sponsors would send it, but their team could decide someone else needed it more and give it to them instead.

In the end, though, the most important thing was to inspire as many people as possible to send them gifts. _Play the hero, _Peeta thought. _You can do it. You've read enough fairytales to know what a hero is supposed to look like. _He stepped up to the window, grinning broadly despite the painful twisting of his stomach. As the train slowed even more, he saw people turning to him, pointing and grinning back. He waved, first with one hand, then with both. _I feel like I'm in a parade, _he thought as the train rolled into the station. A loud _hiss _roared in his ears as the train let off some steam.

A moment later, the District Nine mentors walked in, each holding glasses of wine. Peeta glanced at them, hesitating. Was he supposed to be waving, or would it have been better to look fierce for the sponsors? He wasn't sure he knew how to look foreboding.

"No, keep waving," Hazel said softly, as if the spectators would hear her if she spoke too loud. "Make them love you."

"Where's the other tribute?"

"Rosemary's in her room," Peeta said. "Or she was headed that way, at least."

Lucas hurried to the next train car. "Liza told her to be ready," he grumbled.

A moment later, Hazel tapped him on the shoulder. "We're going to get off the train now, but don't worry. There are barriers set up to keep the Capitol citizens from rushing up to you."

_Did someone freak out about the people in one of the earlier Games? _he wondered, stepping back from the window and following his mentor to the door. Lucas joined them a moment later, Rosemary in tow. The blonde girl looked sulky, as if she resented the interruption.

They reached the appropriate door and stood there, waiting. When the doors finally parted with a hiss, Peeta stepped out, taking a deep breath to brace himself for the coming nightmare.

Somewhere in the train station, a bird took flight.


	6. Chapter 6 Finnick

_A/N: _

_Once again, we have played with the story a little. Finnick is now the District 4 Tribute in the 74th Hunger Games. To make him eligible for the games, we have aged him down to 18. He is mildly out of canon in other ways as well, but we shall leave them as a surprise. Johanna, Wiress and Beetee are also in the Games, all around the same age as Katniss._

* * *

FINNICK

The sound of the Capitol women's jaws hitting the floor was almost audible. Finnick couldn't say he was unused to having this effect on women, but here, in the Capitol, where so much emphasis was placed on looks, it mattered to him for the first time.

He'd been waiting for a long time in this sterile room, unsure of what would come next. They didn't show this part in the broadcasts. They ignored the moments of recollection, when the bright lights of the Capitol disappeared, leaving the Tribute with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. And in these moments, the thoughts became gnarled and twisted, and deep, dark notions that had been festering in the deep recesses of his mind writhed.

But Finnick was glad that the Capitol would never see this side of him. They loved the fantasy, the pretty bronze boy: Earth's hero. They wouldn't want to see how ugly his mind was, only how beautiful his face could be.

He'd already seen his own face far too many times for one day. The television was displaying non-stop footage of the tributes arriving in the Capitol, along with their Reaping. He'd turned the sound off, but couldn't find a way to get rid of the images.

The reports seemed to linger on him. Already, the Capitol had shown a man who'd rushed to get cosmetic surgery and recreated Finnick's devastating sea-green eyes on his own face. Finnick was repulsed. Still, it was only going to get worse.

The only other report that had gotten as much attention was, surprisingly, one from District Twelve. Before he'd turned the sound off, Finnick had learned that, for the first time ever, a volunteer had emerged from District Twelve.

A tanned, dark-haired boy repeatedly ran across the screen, whilst the narrator commented on different points of interest: his tense fists, his ragged breath, the tear threatening to emerge from his eye.

_How disgusting, that the Capitol could take something so raw and desperate and turn it into something commercial and vile. At least he gets to die for something he believes in. That's more__ than I can say for myself._

One of the Capitol women cleared her throat. " We're here to prepare you for the Parade."

"Go on then." Patience was not one of Finnick's strengths, especially on a day like this.

The three women crowded around him, and began their work.

"I don't know where to start!" one commented, exasperated,

Finnick laughed. "Am I really that horrible?"

The woman blushed deeply. "It's not that, Of course not. It's just - there's nothing I can do to improve you."

"I'm sure you'll find something. Please, go ahead. Do your worst."

Finnick paid them little attention as they primped and preened him. He could only hope they'd do a good job – good looks would make him popular, and popularity meant sponsors.

"Do we get any say in our Parade outfits?" he asked.

The Capitol woman shook her head. "I don't understand."

"I've seen that the tributes sometimes ride in the chariots naked." Finnick gave the woman his cheekiest smile, lop-sidedly lifting the one side of his mouth. "What are the chances of that happening this year?"

The woman giggled and blushed again. Finnick was enjoying playing his role. He would play it as long as the Capitol needed him to, which would probably coincide conveniently with his death. _Isn't it funny, how that works out?_

"The chances are slim," a male voice came from behind him. Finnick spun in his chair, as best as he could with the two women working on his legs. "I designed the costume," the new arrival continued. "Had I known you would be so handsome, perhaps I would have designed something more . . . revealing."

Finnick hid behind the screen to dress. This would have to change, this aversion to getting dressed in public. He had seen it happen in the past, when there had been an attractive tribute, and the cameras would hone in on them getting changed or bathing. There were whole television channels dedicated to it. Sick, but necessary, if Finnick was to survive. Please the Capitol, and they had the power to save you.

The costume was a toga, made from delicate blue material that shimmered like the sea. An intricate web of netting descended from one shoulder and draped around his body. On top of his copper-brown hair sat a crown of shells. It reminded Finnick of home, which was a dangerous thing to think of.

He studied himself in the mirror. This was his only weapon, his only method of making it back home. He would let the Capitol have it all, if he could one day return to the ocean.

"You look stunning," one of the women told him. He treated her to one of his smiles.

The same couldn't be said for his counterpart, District Four's female tribute. She was stocky and plain, and not even her beautiful sea-green gown would make her seem exceptional. Finnick took pity on her – this was a game that needed to be played, and yet she had been dealt all the wrong cards. Perhaps he could get her some sponsors.

"How are you holding up?" he asked her.

It was a fairly pointless question; her skin had turned as green as her dress: she was sick with nerves. She managed to mumble, "I'm okay."

"Listen, Aoife," he lifted up her chin, hoping he had remembered her name correctly. "We only get one chance at this. We have to go out there, and do District Four proud."

She nodded.

They exited the building. Security personnel lined the way to the chariots. It was difficult to figure out whether all the security was to keep the screaming hoards of Capitol fans from stampeding them, or to prevent the tributes from escaping. It was effective at both.

Once the fans caught a glimpse of Finnick, they went truly wild. A giant projection shone onto the side of a nearby building, and Finnick was magnified there, ten times his normal size. Now he looked like a god, bronze skin meeting the pale blue ocean of his toga, sea-green eyes staring longingly into the lens.

He realized Aoife had been entirely cut out of the picture, but there was little he could do.

_The Game starts long before the Arena_, he thought, _you have to give the Capitol what it wants._

He found the nearest camera lens and focused its attention on him. He drew one side of his mouth up in a lazy grin, and winked down the camera.

The tributes entered their chariots and the procession began. The roar of the Capitol citizens made the ground vibrate. Finnick blew kisses to some of the women in the audience, always careful to choose the least altered, more human-looking residents. It was strange, that the Capitol would send teenagers to kill aliens, and yet seemed determined to look as otherworldly as possible.

The commentator said the names of the tributes as they passed his box. District One went first, spray-painted silver. The female, Glimmer, was going to be his main rival for sponsors. She was beautiful as well, playing the audience as he was.

District Two followed. A sour-faced little girl, and a broad, muscular blonde. They were dressed at Roman centurions. Finnick imagined that, had he not be Reaped, the blonde boy would have gotten a lot more attention. He was handsome, but severe-looking, unapproachable. Half of the magic was in how you presented yourself.

District Three presented two wiry, nervous Tributes. In the Hunger Games, District Three, the source of all Panem's gadgets, had been useless, but when the Games had turned Intergalactic, there was often some sort of technology lying around. The Robots, a race of semi-humans who had altered themselves with electronics so greatly that they were barely functional without technology, had insisted on them being included. Guns, of course, were still banned, but a number of other weapons were now allowed – if you could make them. Finnick would have to make an effort to befriend at least one of these tributes.

His chariot passed the commentators' box. It was his moment.

"And from District Four, I present Aoife, and – yes, the one you have all been waiting for – Finnick!"

Finnick shot a devastating smile at the nearest camera and waved to his fans, who were screaming and swooning in equal measures. He could get used to this.

The procession continued. The rest of the tributes were fairly unmemorable. A plucky-looking District Seven girl named Johanna lifted her middle finger to the commentators' box in a one-fingered salute. Strangely, the audience loved it.

The youngest tribute came from District Eleven, a tiny dark-skinned girl. She scarcely looked old enough to be Reaped. Luckily, the male tribute from that district was huge, almost twice the size of Finnick. Hopefully, he'd look after the little girl. Finnick had already decided the only person he would look after was himself – even if that only meant finding the least painful way to die.

The District Twelve Tributes had as large as cheer as himself.

"The Star-Crossed Lovers: Katniss and Gale!" the commentator enthused.

Finnick had to admit that their outfits were impressive. They both seemed to be consumed by fire, representing their coal industry, or their fiery passion for each other.

The tributes returned to the Training Center, and as they exited their chariots, they had their first chances to talk to each other. Many didn't feel like being social, just wanting to go up to their apartments in the lifts.

Finnick knew he should stay, but he desperately wanted to escape. He buzzed the lift, and rode to the fourth floor. The apartment was as extravagant as everything in the Capitol – he hated it.

He was the first one back, the only other movement in the flat came from the Avoxes. There was no one to stop him storming into the nearest room and locking the door behind him. Finally, the mask could fall. An Avox had left a towel at the end of the bed. Finnick picked it up and buried his head in it. He took deep breaths, awkward about crying even in his own company.

He felt physically drained, as if the Capitol had already began sucking the life out of him. He stuck his fingers in his ears, disguising the sound from the crowds outside, deliriously joyous at the thought of bloodshed. They reminded him of the seagulls that swarmed around the fishing ships.

His father had told him that civilization ended at the sea: he'd been wrong – civilization ended at the Capitol.


	7. Chapter 7 Katniss

KATNISS

Katniss was determined not to let her fury destroy her last weeks on Earth. Years ago, Gale had taught her how to set traps, how to cope with her father's death. It seemed his last gift would be to keep her from falling apart until the Games.

If she hadn't been Reaped, she would've just kept her head down and laboured through life, doing whatever it took to survive. Now, facing death, she felt that she'd become more sentimental. Perhaps it would've been different if Gale wasn't by her side – it was easier to act weaker when someone was running around, gathering the pieces of your life and doing their best to stick them back together.

Gale had done his damnedest to turn everything around him into District Twelve. On the train, he'd thrown the lavish Capitol food off the table and stormed to the kitchen carriage, where he had forced the wordless Avoxes to combine their most unusual ingredients to make a giant pot of soup. Gale had then delivered it to her and demanded she eat some. It had been an almost perfect replica of Greasy Sae's. It tasted like home.

His next issue was with the showers. Katniss thought she could improvise on most of the controls, but she was far too amused watching Gale repeatedly soak himself with water as he attempted to turn on the shower. Eventually, he'd given up and got a huge tub which he filled with hot water from a tap. It reminded her of her tub of home, as she settled back into the hot water he'd prepared for her.

She supposed she couldn't blame him. He was only trying his best to make everywhere feel familiar, but it was the opposite of what she needed. Every memory of home came with baggage, of time spent with Prim or her mother. Her façade started to crack. Katniss was used to being the strong one: it would've been disappointing to lose her strength so close to the end.

Dinner that evening was tense. It would be their last before they got off the train.

"You two are going to adore the Capitol!" Effie was raving. "I can't wait until the stylists get their hands on you."

Katniss could tell Effie didn't like the way they looked together. In the Capitol, everyone looked different, special; in the Seam, everyone looked the same. In the eyes of the Capitol, they looked almost like cousins.

"You'll hate it," Haymitch slurred. "You might even hate it more than I do. And do you know why? Because the Capitol is going to love you two, little lovers. Love you so much they might actually cry when you die."

"We're not going to die." Katniss had heard Gale repeat that line so many times, she wondered if he really believed it.

"And how do you intend to survive? Please, enlighten us." Haymitch regarded Gale with a shrewd expression, as if hearing him talk about their potential survival was contemptible.

"Isn't that what you're here for?" Gale's voice rose. "Aren't you supposed to tell us what to do?"

Haymitch paused. "Here's some advice: don't be a hero."

And the Capitol did love them. From the moment they'd walked into the deafening din of the Capitol crowds, they'd been surrounded by people. It was essential for Katniss to remain stoic, to not let the Capitol know she was terrified. If nothing else, she did it for Prim's sake.

Gale found her hand and refused to let it go, even when they climbed into their chariot, surrounded by glorious flames. The Capitol loved him. Loved them both. _If only you knew_, Katniss thought, eyes roving over the crowds. _You should hear what he says about you, when we're alone in the twilight of the pines._

Yet Gale smiled. In the chariots, he waved to the crowds. After years as his hunting partner, the change was jarring. _Please, Gale, you can't become their puppet. Not you. We were going to escape._

Escape wasn't an option now.

"It could be worse," Gale whispered in her ear as they ascended to the penthouse in a chrome elevator.

"How?" Katniss shot him a withering look. "How could this be any worse?"

"We could be alone."

"We _are_ alone."

"No," Gale said, his voice deep, firm. "I'm not going to leave you. Ever."

"You should have left me. When my name was called, you should have kept quiet."

"I couldn't."

"I would have," she snapped. Couldn't he understand that? The Seam was the sort of place where you looked after yourself first, no matter how close you were to someone. "If you'd been called first, I would have stayed quiet. I wouldn't throw my life away, I'd be taking care of my family. Your family. Prim." The fight went out of her voice when she said the final word. Prim. It was the first time she had spoken her sister's name out loud since the Reaping. She whispered it again, savoring the feeling of it on her tongue. _"Prim."_

She felt the familiar weight of Gale's arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. "We'll be able to look after them even better in the Victors' Village."

Katniss couldn't bear the thought of having that argument, again. She'd told Prim she'd try to survive, and she would at least try – but she couldn't honestly believe Earth would win. She couldn't accept how easily Gale seemed to believe everything would work out. That they would one day return to Twelve.

"When we win," she said, mechanically.

Gale nodded into her hair, body relaxing at the words.

The elevator doors opened into a brightly lit hallway. This was their floor, their bolt-hole.

"It's been a long day." Gale said, pulling her towards one of the bedroom doors. "Let's put you to bed."

Katniss gritted her teeth. She had looked after herself since her father's death: herself, Prim, and her mother. She didn't need to be treated like a child. She opened her mouth to protest, but one look at Gale's grey eyes made her lose heart. If it made him happy, what harm could it do? If it made him happy, just a little bit, before they died . . .

"I need a minute." She slipped into the bathroom and stripped off the tight black suit she'd been forced to wear for the opening ceremony. She had to admit, the costume had been spectacular. The image of them emerging into the procession, haloed in flame, hands clasped together, would likely be seared into the Capitol's collective mind for the rest of her life. Not that that amount of time meant much, given that she'd be dead in a few weeks.

She cocooned herself in a thick, white dressing gown and removed the heavy makeup from her face. Her fingers wound through her hair, plaiting it in a ritual as old as her hunting days.

_Better, _she thought, standing in front of a wall of mirrors._ less like a Capitol puppet._

She entered a bedroom and found Gale already asleep on the bed, face down and still dressed, snoring. Katniss smiled. _So much for putting me to bed._ She picked up a blanket and draped it over her friend, before sneaking out of the room.

Unable to sleep, she turned on the television. It glared fiercely with images from all over the galaxy. The Reapings of every race. The Neanderthals, nearly human, but bigger and stronger, clattered flesh against wood and stone in a victory dance. They'd been lucky enough to be chosen from hundreds of volunteers. The screen cut to the Robots as they raised their arms in celebration. Steel cords followed their sinews and muscles, enhancing every twist of their bodies as they moved. These were her opponents. She turned the television off.

In the darkness of the room, she finally had time to reflect on all that had happened. The Girl on Fire? Katniss didn't feel like her. She felt tiny, weak, pathetic. Hiding behind Gale. _He'll die, _she realized. _H__e'll die protecting me if I don't protect myself._

She resolved to stay strong. So strong she wouldn't need Gale. She could do it - she could hunt, she was a survivor, she had something worth fighting for. And if, by some miracle, she found a bow in the arena . . .

_I have to win the Games for Earth, _she thought. _I have to make it home._


	8. Chapter 8 Cato

Chapter Seven

Cato had always hated mornings. For the third time today, Cato contemplated smashing the alarm clock: apparently hitting the snooze button was only enough to stop the sound blaring for five minutes. How did it know that he still hadn't gotten out of bed? Not for the first time since reaching the Capitol, he felt the eerie sensation of being watched. He cast aside the sheets and rolled over, bringing the meaty part of his hand down on the button and hanging his legs over the edge of the bed. He rubbed his eyes, letting his vision blur so he wouldn't have to look at the simulated sunrise programmed into the wall-screen.

If this were any other day, personal trainers would've dumped a bucket of ice water on him by now. Instead, he had a few minutes to collect himself before stepping his foot on the plush red carpet of his temporary bedroom.

The lack of disturbances didn't make the morning any easier to face.

He headed down the hall, passing a pair of Avoxes as they toted silver trays to his mentors' rooms, and stepped into the dining area where he'd had dinner last night. Clove was already there, nibbling on a chocolate chip muffin. "It's about time," she muttered. "We're supposed to go downstairs to socialize with the other tributes before we start training, but Enobaria said we can grab something to eat here first."

Cato grunted in assent, slumping into one of the dining chairs and picking a doughnut from the bowl in the middle of the table.

"I have been downstairs once already," Clove went on, unwrapping a second muffin. "I talked to the tributes from District One. They've both had training, too."

"Great. We'll have to make sure to align with them." His own voice sounded flat to his ears, probably because it was the morning, and he didn't function well in the morning. _You would think that after almost eighteen years of waking up before dawn, I'd be allowed to sleep in for once, _he thought. "See anyone else?"

"The girl from five. Red hair, weird gold-ish eyes. She keeps to herself."

"Hmm."

"Anyway, we need to get down there. Brutus said the other tributes usually go down to eat right about now, and he wants us to start figuring out who we can use."

_So much for teamwork, _Cato thought, rising from his chair and licking the powdered sugar off his fingertips. _No wonder Earth never wins. It's like we're stuck playing the original Hunger Games. _

They descended to the first level, then walked to the main dining room. In accordance with Clove's words, the other tributes had started to appear. From the parade, Cato recognized the green-eyed man from District Four, the tributes from District Twelve, and the District Seven girl who'd flipped off the commentators.

"Let's start with District Four," he said to Clove, knowing the green-eyed man would draw enough sponsors to support a powerful alliance. Without waiting for a response, Cato strode over to the dessert table where the bronze-haired man was standing and snatched a piece of caramel candy from the serving plate.

"Quite the sweet tooth you've got there," said the man. He popped a sugar cube into his mouth, a grin lighting up his face as he did so.

"You're one to talk." He picked up a plastic container full of chocolate pudding and set it on his tray. "I figured someone who looked that good on screen would have a better diet."

The man arched one sculpted eyebrow. "Well, aren't you forward?"

Cato sputtered. _Bastard. _"That is _not _what I meant!"

"Oh, I know. We all play a part for the Capitol. I just happen to play the part of the charming storybook hero who everybody loves." His grin widened, but something in his eyes triggered an alarm in Cato's mind. His shoulders stiffened, and he turned back to the dessert tray to pick up treats that his trainers would've never allowed him to have back at home.

The green-eyed man spoke. "You must have some reason for talking to me. I'm assuming you want an alliance, but if there's something _else_ you wanted. . ." Again, he did that thing where he arched one eyebrow and smiled.

Cato grit his teeth. "I want an alliance."

"Wonderful." The man reached forward to shake Cato's hand. "I'm Finnick Odair, and you are . . . Cato, yes? I remember your name from the parade."

"Right. I'm from District Two—"

"Your district partner is Clove, you're eighteen years old, and you've either had years of intense training to prepare you for the Intergalactic Games, or you have an unhealthy obsession with maintaining your physique. Is that about right?"

_You bastard. _"Do you want to form an alliance or not?" he demanded. He was starting to hope the answer was no—that way, he wouldn't have to deal with this guy's weird idiosyncrasies.

Instead, Finnick smirked. "Sounds good to me. I was thinking I'd align with District Three, but I could definitely work you in."

"District Three?"

"Yes. Who else is going to know how to fight the Robots?"

Cato frowned. Like the citizens of the Capitol, most of the Robots had modified their bodies. The difference was that the people of the Capitol changed their bodies for aesthetic purposes, and the Robots changed theirs to become more efficient killers. "Yeah. Sure."

Finnick picked up the miniature bowl of sugar cubes and set it on his tray. As he did, he pointed to a rectangular table on the other side of the room. "I think your district partner is looking for you."

Cato looked over to see Clove beckoning him. She'd seated herself beside the attractive blonde from District One, and a stocky boy with curly hair.

"Their names are Glimmer and Marvel," Finnick said. "In case you wanted to know."

_What kind of weirdo memorizes names that easily? _Cato wondered, approaching the table. Finnick followed close behind, pausing only to invite his district partner to join them. Cato barely recognized the girl. Her plain features looked almost grotesque compared to Finnick's, which meant she'd been cut out of most of the shots at the parade.

"_That's _what you're going to eat?" Clove asked as he sat down.

Cato glanced down at his plate, realizing he'd neglected to pick up anything nutritious, then shrugged. "What do you care?" She rolled her eyes and introduced him to the District One tributes. Cato did his best not to sound brash. His conversation with Finnick had left him steaming, but the last thing he wanted to do was compromise a potential alliance. Whatever the president said about the Intergalactic Games being a team sport, Cato knew it was a lie. Culling the herd was the only way to ensure that the strongest tributes survived long enough to win. There wasn't enough food in the arena to keep all twenty-four Earth tributes alive, even if that were plausible, and there sure as hell weren't enough weapons for all of them.

Glimmer and Marvel seemed competent enough. Each had gone through several years of training, as did many children of District One. Neither of them had actually volunteered, but they didn't seem torn up about being here, which was a good sign that they thought they had a decent chance of surviving.

Cato wondered if the tributes from previous Games had thought the same before they'd died.

After fifteen minutes, Cato got up to grab food that would sustain his body throughout today's training sessions. He saw a steaming pan of baked potatoes and reached for the tongs. At the same time, the dark-haired boy from District Twelve swept in and snatched the utensil from the pan. Cato scowled. "I was going to use those."

"There's plenty of food in the Capitol. Go find something else."

He looked down at the boy's plate. It held the oddest assortment of foods Cato had ever seen—roasted rabbit leg, whole carrots, some sort of white tuber, and now baked potatoes. It was like he'd gone foraging in the woods for his meal. "Do you eat like that at home?" Cato asked.

"If I didn't, I wouldn't eat at all." The boy grabbed another potato and set it onto his plate. The motion seemed almost angry, as if the potato had offended him, or something.

The dark-haired boy's earlier words started to sink in. "So I guess what they say about District Twelve is true. You're all poor enough to eat dirt."

A pair of grey eyes slid over to him, overflowing with barely-leashed menace. Even as a tiny part of him shied away from the fury in those eyes, the rest of him tensed for a fight. "Well," the boy said. "maybe if the Capitol actually cared about its people, we wouldn't be starving."

"Gale, cut it out." The voice sliced through the air. Cato stepped back, recognizing the District Twelve girl as she appeared at her partner's shoulder. The boy, Gale, glanced at her, then back at him. The anger was still there, but it had cooled, as if the warning had locked it away behind a wall of ice.

"You can't talk about the Capitol like that," the girl said. "Not here. Not when people are listening." She turned, shoulders tensed, eyes narrowed. "We'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone."

Cato shrugged and picked up the tongs. "Whatever. Like I care." _You're probably going to die in the bloodbath anyway. _

He finished filling up his plate as the District Twelve tributes walked away. He noticed that they never left each other's sides, even when they sat at the opposite end of the long dining table. _Must be true then—they really _are _lovebirds. _

He chuckled to himself. Love may have driven the boy to volunteer for his girlfriend, but if he was stupid enough to throw his life away for that, there wasn't much hope for them to make it past the first day.

_They'll probably get taken out by the Neanderthals before they reach the Cornucopia, _he thought, returning to his side of the table. There were alliances to form.


	9. Chapter 9 Gale

GALE

Gale continued to stare at the muscular blond. He had humiliated him. In front of _Katniss_. He almost wished this was the old-fashioned Hunger Games. He imagined stalking Cato, waiting until he let his guard down, then pouncing before the bastard knew what was happening. He'd rub Cato's face into the ground. _Who's eating dirt now? _Then he'd slit Cato's throat. Or maybe that was too quick. Maybe he'd choose something slow, torturous . . .

A voice broke his reverie. "Gale, don't sulk."

Gale growled. "I'm not sulking."

"Sure you're not." Katniss sighed. "We should be forging alliances, but you're scaring everyone."

Gale looked around. Katniss was telling the truth: nobody sat within a five seat radius of them.

"We don't need them. We're a team, just us two. Always have been. "

Katniss shot him an exasperated look, but kept her mouth closed. Gale knew this wouldn't be the last time they had this conversation. The truth was that Gale only trusted himself to protect her: as soon as he passed on that duty to someone else, she was out of his control. The aim was to keep Katniss alive.

_What if I die?_ The thought occurred to him. _Then she'll have no one._

Gale's answer to that was simple: _I won't die._

Gale traced the curves of Katniss's fingers with his own, outlining each scar and callous. Another person might not consider her scars beautiful, but to his eyes, they transformed her from something that looked dainty and powerless to something capable and fierce. Battle scars.

He followed Katniss's line of sight. She was watching the group of Career tributes. The bronze District Four male was making them all laugh. Gale was happy to see the blond District Two tribute looked uncomfortable.

Gale speared a potato with his fork.

The dining room was full of alliances in their infancy. A District Nine boy - Peeta, if Gale remembered correctly - was gathering the stragglers, those still coming to terms with their Reapings. A couple of other groups were littered around the canteen. Peeta approached them and jovially encouraged them to join his table. "Table," not "alliance". Gale doubted anyone was oblivious enough to miss the significance, so why did he bother? There was already a little group forming at the table.

"Hi! My name's Peeta, I'm representing District Nine. Do you guys want to join us?" Peeta asked, his eyes pathetically expectant.

Katniss opened her mouth, but Gale cut in beforehand, "We're fine." His tone brooked no argument.

Peeta directed his next statement solely at Katniss. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

Katniss smiled, as sweetly as Gale had ever seen her smile.

Was it Gale's imagination, or was Peeta's offer strangely weighted? _If she changes her mind about what? _Gale felt like asking_. About spending her last few days with me? I'll look after her better than __you ever could, bread boy._

Peeta returned to his table, and Katniss's full attention returned to Gale.

"I can speak for myself." Katniss's eyes narrowed. "But you made the right decision."

A wave of relief swept over Gale. Finally, Katniss was beginning to understand. He lifted his eyes to hers. "I told you. We don't need anyone else."

"No, we still need an alliance. Just not that one." Her eyes flitted back to the Careers.

* * *

The Training Center sat in the basement of the Earth team's dormitories. The corridor leading from the canteen to the Training Centre was lined with pictures and statistics of all the extraterrestrial races. "Know your enemy" the signs screamed. Gale was suddenly aware of how vulnerable his refusal to watch the Intergalactic Games had left him. He was entirely oblivious to his foes' strengths and weaknesses.

He tried to gather as much information as he could without making it obvious to the other tributes. Six planets took part in the Games, including Earth. Of the other planets, he could recognise four: the Red Men, the Neanderthals, the Robots and the Swamp People, but one unidentifiable group of aliens kept flashing in front of his eyes. Figures, shrouded in white, almost human, but lacking something vital: a face. Yet, they were still beautiful: enchanting and entrancing, their porcelain-white skin emitting a glow which must've been born somewhere deep with in them. Why had Gale never heard of them before?

"Katniss?" He asked, turning toward where she stood at his side. "Who are they?"

Her face fell. "The Angels. I wouldn't talk about them, if I were you."

Gale could see something had obviously disturbed Katniss. Now he knew their name, it seemed odd that he never heard of them before. It was only now that he noticed the people around him seemed to be pointedly avoid the subject of them. The Careers were loudly discussing the best ways of killing the races ("Swamp people, stop the water and you've gotten rid of the lot... Robots are easy, get them wet enough, and all their gadgets cook them from the inside … I bet the guy from District Eleven could take down a Neanderthal...") but no one ever mentioned the Angels.

Gale glanced around the gallery, seeking a reason for this anomaly. The white figures seemed to haunt the dead, always touching caressing them with long, ethereal fingers. He was transfixed by the bright, flawless skin which sat were their faces should, perfectly smooth except for a vague, undefined bulge which sat where the bridge of their nose should. _How do they speak?_

The Angels. Gale had a feeling he'd have to remember that name.

The corridor eventually ended, and so did Gale's train of thought. The two doors swung open into the Training Center, replete with various weapons and survival gear. Trainers stood at each station, hoping beyond sense that they would be the person who trained the next champion.

Katniss separated herself from him when they entered the room, storming towards the weaponary laid out in front of them, before even the Careers had the chance to control their awe. Gale had to jog to keep up.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To get us some allies."

Gale was confused. "Why are you walking away from the rest of the tributes then?"

"You'll see." Katniss had a glint in her eye. Gale gave up trying to follow her and hung back with the others.

He saw Katniss carefully select a bow. She ran her fingers over it, touching it with a love she could never seem to find for him. She pulled it up and made the string taut, testing its feeling in her hand.

She never walked towards the target. She simply knocked an arrow from where she was stood, easily twenty metres from the target, and fired. The tributes followed the arrow with their eyes. A perfect ten. And another, and another, as Katniss repeatedly aimed and fired. All eyes fixed on her. Gale could feel himself swell with pride, watching her accomplish the impossible.

The Careers stood, faces a strange mixture of awe, hope, horror, and jealousy. Yet he could see the speculation in their eyes, the quiet agreement in their stances. Katniss was far too dangerous as an enemy.

For everybody in the room, the odds of an Earth victory seemed to rise.


	10. Chapter 10 Peeta

PEETA

The arrows buried themselves deep in the bull's-eye, striking so close to each other that the shafts knocked together as they vibrated from the impacts. When the black-haired girl finally lowered the bow, there were a dozen arrows sticking out of the bull's-eye, all touching.

Peeta was pretty sure that if his jaw hadn't been attached to his face, it would've shattered against the floor by now.

"Well," someone said. Peeta turned to see the District Two boy tilting his head back as he looked at the target. "I guess the Girl on Fire has some fire _inside_, after all."

There was some unnerved chuckling. At once, Peeta understood the shift in the atmosphere. Every other tribute was sizing her up, contemplating how they could get her to join their alliance.

_No wonder she sat alone at lunch, _he thought, heart sinking. _Why would she need to make friends when she can do _that_? _

"If you're done," came a new voice. They all turned toward the speaker as she stepped out of the staff elevator. "it's time to prepare you all for the arena."

Tension danced in the air between everyone as the woman strode toward them. This part of the Intergalactic Games wasn't shown on television, which meant none of them knew what to expect beyond vague hints they'd picked up after years of watching tributes get shipped off to die. For some tributes, the lack of knowledge made them more attentive; for others, it made them fidgety.

"My name is Atala," the woman went on, stopping on a rubber mat on the floor. "I am the head training instructor for the Intergalactic Games. Right now, I'm the one standing between you and certain death. If you're smart, you'll use the next three days to learn something new, something more complex than using a sword or a bow." Her dark eyes slid over to the District Twelve girl. Peeta followed her gaze, noting the coolness in the girl's eyes, the way she stood straight and calm under Atala's stare.

_She's strong, inside and out, _Peeta thought, as Atala went on to talk about the benefits of survival training over combat experience. _I should talk to her, see if she's open to an alliance. _

Immediately, he wanted to discard the thought. This girl wouldn't be interested in a baker's son. He had nothing to offer her except for the group of misfits he'd assembled at lunch, and even those bonds were tentative, ready to be broken at the slightest tug. Besides, the District Twelve boy had made it pretty clear that they had no interest in aligning with him.

Atala concluded her lecture, reminding them once again that there was to be no fighting before the Games, then let them scatter to the different stations. Peeta stood idle for a few moments, torn between approaching the girl before the others moved in and actually getting some practice with things he hadn't learned. When he caught a dark glance from the District Twelve boy, Peeta averted his eyes and hurried over to the nearest station.

That station was all about tying knots. Or, at least, that was what he assumed, when he saw the coils of rope, wire, and other miscellaneous materials strewn out across the floor. The instructor at that station smiled as he approached, eager to have someone to train. Belatedly, Peeta realized that most of the Careers and a good portion of the other tributes had gone straight to the weapon racks to hone their skills.

He wondered, briefly, how he was going to die and how long he'd last before that happened.

"Do you have any experience with tying knots?" the instructor asked. Peeta shook his head; poaching was illegal in District Nine, and having worked in a bakery for the majority of his life, he'd never even tried hunting or setting snares.

_Maybe hunting is legal in District Twelve, _he thought, contemplating the girl's archery skills. Surely, she couldn't have learned so much without extensive practice. _Unless she hunted illegally._

He frowned, his image of the girl shifting around the thought. What if she wasn't trained? What if she was just a rebel? Would the Capitol go out of its way to punish her in the arena, or would they cheer her on as Earth's greatest hope?

The instructor was going on about how to properly tie a slipknot. Peeta focused, figuring this step was integral to the setup of the actual trap. Ten minutes later, as the instructor talked him through a trap that could lift a hundred-pound animal six feet into the air, Peeta understood the importance of good knot work. _You could hang a person from a trap like this, _he thought, repeating the steps with some gentle coaching from the man in front of him.

"You have to tie it tighter than that."

Peeta looked up, startled by the unfamiliar voice. The girl from District Twelve loomed over him, staring at the rope in his hand. When he met her gaze, her ash-grey eyes narrowed, and the muscles in her neck stood up.

"Thanks," he murmured, glancing self-consciously at the knot. She sat down beside him and picked up a coil of rope for herself. She set to work, mimicking the steps he'd taken to get this far, then taking advice from the instructor when she surpassed him. Peeta struggled to keep up, feeling ridiculously inadequate as he watched her deft fingers wrap the flexible cord into knots. In half the time it had taken him to finish the first three steps, she'd produced a flawless trap.

"Would you like to learn how to make a fishing net next?" the instructor asked, eyes bright as he noted his new pupil's talent. Peeta finished making his trap, stomach bunching up when he compared it to the girl's. Only when he felt her eyes on his face did he dare to look up.

"What do you think?" she asked him. "There'll have to be a water source in the arena, so there will probably be fish. Are you up to making nets?"

"I would slow you down, trying to figure it out." He moved to stand, but froze when she snorted.

"That's why we're practicing. And we're all on the same team, so the more you know, the better it is for both of us. Here." She handed him a rope, then looked back toward the instructor. The man looked baffled at their exchange, but showed them the first step to making a good net. This was actually easier than making a trap. Except for the first and last steps, making a net was all about reproducing the same knot over and over. Once he got the hang of it, he was able to move quickly, matching the girl knot for knot.

"So," he said, trying to think of a way to align with her when he had so little to offer. "You're pretty good with a bow."

"It's a hobby. My father taught me."

He nodded, noticing the way her face softened when she mentioned her father. "Are you two close?"

"We were. And then he died." The tenderness slipped away, replaced by the stoic mask she'd worn while shooting. Her hands continued dancing over her half-formed net. Their instructor murmured something, and she undid the last two knots and retied them. Her calm expression never faltered.

"So, your district partner . . . Is he really your lover or—"

"Gale is a friend." Her eyes flickered around the room, lingering on the District Twelve boy. With dark hair and olive skin, Gale could've been her cousin. "The star-crossed lovers bit is something the Capitol made up."

"Ah." He nodded in sympathy, finishing another row of knots.

"He thinks he's protecting me," she said, lowering her voice. "But he can't. Even if Earth _did _win, what are the odds either of us will make it to the end?"

"I think you'd make it."

Her hands froze around the rope; her head whipped around. "What?"

"I think, if Earth won, you'd probably be one of the survivors. I mean, look." He gestured to the Career pack, where they were driving spears through training dummies and slashing at instructors with blunted swords. "So far, you're the only one I've seen who can even _use _a ranged weapon."

"That's not true. The girl from Two can throw knives."

He shrugged. "Okay, but—"

"Peeta," she said. A shiver shot down his spine. _She remembered my name. _"How often do you see ranged weapons in the arena?"

"Well . . . not very, I guess."

She nodded. "Most of the time, the planets supply their tributes with melee weapons, like swords and spears. It's more interesting than watching one tribute snipe the aliens whenever they come too close to their Sanctuary. I'll be lucky if there's a single bow in the arena, let alone one I can get my hands on."

"So why are you tying knots when you could be learning how to use a sword?" The question jumped to his lips without passing through his mind, and he winced at the challenge in his own voice.

Again, her hands paused over the net she was weaving. "I'm avoiding Gale, actually."

Peeta arched an eyebrow.

She sighed. "He's been my best friend for years, but having him here, knowing what's ahead . . . I don't like it. It's bad enough I have to be here. I shouldn't have to worry about my best friend getting killed, too."

"I'm sorry things ended up that way."

"Yeah." She tied off the end of her net and turned to the instructor. "Thanks for the tips."

"No problem," the man said, as she turned toward the weapon racks.

"Wait," Peeta called, reaching for her. His fingertips brushed the back of her hand, and she whipped around, body going rigid. His hand jerked back so fast, he lost his balance and fell backward.

"Yes?" she asked stiffly.

"I . . . I never got your name. I think I should know, since we're on the same team."

Her jaw flexed, her grey eyes turning to flint. After a moment, her shoulders relaxed. "Katniss Everdeen, District Twelve."

"I'm Peeta Mellark, District Nine."

She nodded, started to turn, then paused. After a long moment, she spoke again. "You seem nice, Peeta. Try not to die, okay?"

"Yeah," he muttered as she left. "Sure."


	11. Chapter 11 Finnick

FINNICK

"Star-crossed lovers?" Glimmer snorted, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

Finnick shrugged. "It seems to be working for them. I bet they're rolling in sponsors."

Glimmer sighed, looking wistfully at Finnick. "You and I would be a much more attractive couple."

Finnick laughed, good-naturedly. "I'm not sure the Capitol could handle us." _Besides, you'll probably die in the Cornucopia_, he was tempted to add. By now, only half of what he actually thought made it way out of his mouth. He knew that he wasn't the only one thinking hard about what he was saying, or manipulating those around him. Unless you were talented enough to get an alliance without any conspiracy, like the District Twelve girl was bound to, it was a hard graft. Finnick made a mental note to get Katniss on his side, but she was still tied up with Peeta, the District Nine boy. Almost literally, judging by the tangled fish net he was making. Finnick was still unsure as to whether or not Peeta was a threat; he'd have to monitor him.

Desperate to get away from Glimmer, but struggling not to offend, he placed a hand on the small of her back and whispered, "I'll see you later." He was almost ashamed by how much he was enjoying his role, playing with those around him until they were utterly under his control. The District One girl had been one of the easiest, blushing and giggling at the softest whisper.

Finnick had been awake for the majority of the previous night, studying the meager statistics available on his fellow competitors. He had charmed his Capitol escort, Rhina Brooke, into obtaining all the information on the tributes as she could. For the outlying districts, he'd only uncovered basic information. For the Career districts, however, an absurd amount of information was available: family and medical history, school grades, which weapons they practiced with as a "hobby". Rhina had said the information was gathered for recruitment into the Peacekeeper programs.

Finnick was pleased about what his hard work had brought him. _You can't cross the sea by just standing on the shore, letting the water lap at your feet and seeing the waves drag the beach from beneath you_. That was one of his father's sayings; every one of his lessons about life harked back to the sea. Finnick felt a pang of nostalgia as he thought of the ocean, the smell of salt in his nostrils, the feeling of water running over his skin.

Finnick surveyed the hall, wondering who his next victim would be. It was tempting to approach Gale, who was watching his district partner and Peeta with a expression like a sailor assessing a particularly turbulent sea, but Finnick knew nothing good would come of it. Most of the other tributes were working at the stations, many heeding the words of Atala and choosing survival skills over combat. Cato was one of the few who had chosen weaponry, and Finnick decided to go and join him. To his mind, his sponsors would provide for him, as long as he put on a good show. Besides, annoying the District Two boy was hilarious, and Finnick made it his mission in life to never deny himself pleasure.

Cato struck a mannequin with a broad, two-handed sword, show-boating his strength and technique.

"People will think you had something to prove," Finnick said, leaning on another mannequin.

"What do you mean by that?" Cato's brow creased in confusion. According to Cato's file, the boy's school grades had been decidedly average: whether this was due to lack of intelligence, or hours spent in training instead of studying, Finnick had yet to determine.

"I'm sure you're aware that the District Twelve has already dealt three fatal wounds to this dummy. Your efforts seem a little superfluous, to say the least."

Cato's lips twisted into a snarl. "I've never hurt an unarmed man before, but I might make an exception for you."

_So I was right, _Finnick thought. _Cato is just trying to prove himself as efficient a killer as Katniss. _

"Come on, Cato, I thought we were friends." Finnick gave him a friendly dig on his well-muscled arm.

Cato sneered. "All friendships have a price. Yours is seeming pretty worthless at the moment."

"Your words burn me," Finnick responded, voice dripping with sarcasm. Yet he could see the violent boy's point. It was time for stage two of his master plan. "I can see that you're trying to play hard to get, so I'll come back later."

Cato flushed a dark, angry red. He spluttered obscenities, but was unable to formulate a coherent response before Finnick had left in search of his next victims.

They were easy to find, squabbling over nuts and bolts like seagulls over fish innards. It cheered Finnick to see that the District Three Tributes had a technological background; his plans would have been scuppered if their parents had been cooks or cleaners.

"What are you making?" Finnick was careful to lower his voice to avoid startling them, but both nearly jumped out of their skin.

"A device," said Wiress.

"To track a someone," continued Beetee.

"Or something."

"In the arena."

"Or anywhere else," Wiress finished, and they looked back down at the pile of bolts.

_Perfect. _Finnick grinned. He couldn't have wished for anything better. He'd never understood why nobody allied with the District Three tributes. Sure, they were hard to keep alive, but the benefits of their technological knowledge outweighed their weak points. It was a shame they usually died in the bloodbath.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered.

"Hold here," instructed Beetee, gesturing to a part of the device.

"And here."

The time passed with all three of them absorbed in the task.

"If you could find anything in the arena, what would you want it to be?" Finnick asked.

"Batteries," answered Wiress.

"Tools," added Beetee.

"Wires."

"Magnets."

"Motors."

The list got longer as the two tributes got more enthusiastic.

"Slow down." Finnick laughed, then became deadly serious. "I have a deal for you. I can get you all of this, and more, but I need you to build me something. Something we could use against the Angels."

The two inventors gasped, then muttered incomprehensibly between themselves.

"Could you do it?" pressed Finnick.

"No one has ever attempted it before."

"It'll be difficult."

Their inability to speak in detailed sentences was beginning to grate on Finnick. He needed an answer. "But not impossible?"

"Nothing is impossible."

"If you have the resources."

"I can get you the equipment. Just tell me, do we have a deal?" Finnick tried, and failed, not to sound desperate.

They answered in unison. "Deal."

Finnick gave a deep sigh of relief. "Pleasure doing business with you both."

He left the two District Three kids as he found them, squabbling. There was just one more stop before he could begin his own training.

He found her near the camouflage station and introduced himself. "Hi. I'm Finnick."

The girl spun around so fast her plaited hair almost hit him in the jaw. "I'm Katniss," she said, the words seeming to burst out of her mouth automatically, without even registering his introduction.

"So I finally get to speak to the elusive Girl on Fire?"

Katniss eyed his blue uniform. "And I presume you're the man of the sea?"

Finnick laughed, "I guess you're right. Water and fire, working together. Can you imagine it? We'd be unstoppable."

"Maybe your friend would have something to say about that." Katniss nodded to someone behind him. Cato stood on the other side of the room, making no effort to conceal the look of disgust on his face.

"Leave him to me." Finnick smiled reassuringly. "Just promise me you'll consider."

Katniss glanced around the room, no doubt searching for her district partner. "It's not entirely my choice."

Finnick could almost see the cogs of her brains churning out complex decisions in a heartbeat. A born huntress. She was obviously buying more time, waiting to see how the alliances formed before offering her allegiance. A wise move.

"I understand." Finnick smiled and left to find the District Two boy who was no doubt licking his wounds.


	12. Chapter 12 Cato

CATO

"_What _are you _doing_?" Cato demanded, stalking over to the copper-haired man. Finnick gave him an amused smile, as if the fury in his voice didn't faze him at all.

"I do believe I'm netting us some allies," the man said, eyes twinkling with humor.

Cato's gaze flickered to the girl from twelve. She was watching their exchange from the camouflage station, shoulders curled inward, halfway between crouching and standing upright. "She's from District Twelve. What good is she to us?"

Finnick cocked his head to the side. "You _were_ paying attention before training started, weren't you?"

"Tributes from twelve never even make it to the top ten. What makes you think she'd be good for our alliance?"

For the barest fraction of a second, anger swam in those sea-green eyes, as black and sharp as obsidian shards. Cato flinched, reflexively stepping back. A strange, amused smile crossed Finnick's face as he leaned forward. "I know a survivor when I see one," Finnick said, his voice barely audible over the pounding in Cato's ears. "Believe me, she knows what she's doing."

Finnick rested one fingertip on Cato's neck, dragging it down until it hit his collarbone. Bumps rose on his skin at the feather-light touch, adrenaline shooting through his veins. Cato shivered, struggling to breathe.

Seeming satisfied with his reaction, the bronze-haired man grinned and stepped back, striding over to the knot-tying station. Cato stared after him, seething.

"Are you going to stand there all day?" Clove's voice pierced his eardrums like an ice-pick. He turned and glared at her, but before he could say anything, she continued. "Why don't you pick your jaw up off the floor and practice your spear-throwing, or something?"

"Whatever." He stalked over to one of the racks and picked up a set of spears. It had been a while since he'd practiced with them; he'd been focusing on his swordplay over the past few months in training, and that obsession had left his skill with ranged weapons somewhat lacking. _Maybe Finnick was right, _he thought. _If there are any ranged weapons in the arena, that girl might be useful. _

He shoved the thought aside, not wanting to admit that bastard had a point when his face was still flushed with fury. More than anything, he wanted a distraction. Forming alliances was not his forte—he wanted to fight, wanted to watch his enemies bleed out when he stuck them with the pointy end of his sword.

Marvel was already at the spear-throwing station, hurling javelins at the massive targets on the other side of the room. Cato noted his tendency to aim too low, considered correcting him, then decided to keep his mouth shut, instead finding a place in the stall next to Marvel so they could converse if the need came up.

His lack of practice hadn't dulled his skills as much as he'd expected. After a few throws, he was able to reliably pierce the bull's-eye. The rhythmic motions relaxed him. _This _was something he excelled at.

A while later, Atala announced the start of lunch time, instructing them all to leave their tools and weapons where they were and head up to the main level. All twenty-four tributes crammed into what Cato had previously considered a spacious elevator, and he had the displeasure of standing next to both District Twelve tributes. The broad-shouldered boy Cato had snapped at during breakfast glared at the doors as they closed, jaw set. Hatred rippled off him, a more pronounced version of what Cato had seen in Finnick's eyes a while ago. _But hatred for who? _Cato wondered, as the elevator shot up to the main level. _For me, or the Games themselves? _

The girl from twelve shifted closer to her partner throughout the elevator ride, but they never touched. It seemed odd to him, how un-lover-like they seemed, given their circumstances. They almost seemed to form a wall between themselves and the other tributes, never touching, but united.

_Lover's quarrel? _Cato wondered. The doors parted and the tributes rushed out, eager to be away from each other. Most went straight to the buffet tables, but a few lingered near the elevator, watching. He caught sight of the girl from five, clinging close to the wall, and the boy from ten, with the crippled foot. He gave each of them a ten percent chance of making it past the first day.

Sighing, Cato headed to the buffet table where the other tributes were lining up. He picked up a tray, shoveled some food onto it, and headed to the table his alliance had claimed this morning. Glimmer was already there, nibbling on a piece of garlic bread. Occasionally, she dipped the bread in a yellowish broth sitting in front of her.

It seemed rather . . . undignified, given how pretty she was. But because she was part of his alliance, he said nothing.

"So," Clove said, sitting down with a tray full of steak and green beans. "Who else have we seen that we should add to the alliance?"

"That girl from twelve," Marvel said at once.

"And her district partner," Finnick added.

Cato set his fork down, determined not to stab anyone with it. "There's no way we can support an alliance that big."

"I saw the boy from twelve at the archery station a while ago," Glimmer said through a mouthful of bread. "He's not a bad shot."

"Not as good as the girl, but still good," Marvel agreed.

"We don't need them both."

"But we can recruit them both, and then if one dies early, we still have a sniper."

"Just how many ranged weapons do you think we're going to get?" Cato demanded. "Even if we managed to make off with more than the Red Men, what are the odds there are going to be two bows to shoot?"

"You never know," Marvel said. "There are almost always spears, and those are long-ranged weapons."

_Yeah, but they're inconvenient as hell to carry around, and no one uses them to hunt anymore. _"It's not practical to have them both."

"You know," Clove said. "Chances are some of our alliance will die in the bloodbath. We may not need them both, but they're not just going to split up because we ask them to."

Cato frowned, glaring at the bowl of tomato soup he'd picked up. "Maybe we should drop one of the gearheads from three," he muttered. Both tributes, silent and unassuming so far, glanced up at him, but he was looking at Finnick, subtly challenging his decision to bring the District Three twerps into their alliance.

Finnick arched an eyebrow. "But, Cato, they're practically a matching set."

"No one cares about your aesthetic preferences."

"Have you seen the way the Capitol people look at me?" the man asked. "_They _clearly like my aesthetic preferences. And I meant as a team, not as half-identical strangers."

"Whatever." He jabbed his fork into a piece of chicken and brought it to his lips. At the same moment, Finnick dipped a spoon in the base of a sundae and drizzled melted fudge over the vanilla ice cream. Cato stared, transfixed, as the fudge slid down the handle of the spoon. Finnick popped the utensil between his lips, drawing it out slowly to clear the ice cream off the metal.

"_Anyway,_" Clove said, looking between them in annoyance. "Some of us will die early, so it's in our best interest to have a larger alliance. We might as well get both tributes from twelve on our side. Besides, they'll be drowning in sponsor gifts, with the whole 'tragic love story' bit."

"Yeah," Cato muttered darkly. "We might not even need Finnick to get us sponsors."

The man grinned, seeming perfectly at ease despite the threat of exile. "Better see who makes it through the bloodbath before we worry too much about sponsors. Less infighting that way."

"Finnick is right," Marvel said. "And so is Clove. But maybe we should take a vote on this. How many of you think we should get both District Twelve tributes on our side?"

Clove, Glimmer, Marvel, Finnick, and the gearheads from three raised their hands. Cato scowled.

Marvel nodded. "Who thinks we should just bring the girl to our side?"

Cato stubbornly kept his hand lowered. Surprise flickered across Marvel's face, but he continued. "Who thinks we shouldn't bring either of them to our side?"

Now Cato raised his hand. After a brief hesitation, Finnick's pasty-faced district partner raised her hand, blanching as if she was afraid to go up against the majority.

"Okay," Marvel said. "That settles it. I'll talk to them after lunch gets out."

"Give them another day," Finnick said. "I approached the girl this morning. She knows she's under pressure to align with us."

"Whatever." Cato picked up his tray and stalked toward the buffet table. He could feel Clove's eyes on his back as he walked away. Under his breath, he muttered, "If you want to get yourself killed relying on some weakling from District Twelve, be my guest."


	13. Chapter 13 Katniss

KATNISS

It was the second day of training, but learning was the last thing on Katniss's mind.

The Career alliance had faults; she could see that much. Their problem was size of the group. Alliances were only important because of the lack of resources in the arena, so if an alliance was too large, it defeated the purpose of creating one in the first place.

This, however, was not the only problem. Even from a distance, Katniss could see tension plaguing the group. It lacked a definitive leader. There was Cato, the warrior, and the Finnick, the charming politician and sponsor-magnet. With the peculiar, antagonistic relationship they shared, there could be no cooperation. Infighting and power struggles would divide them in the arena. Katniss didn't want to be around to see the Career's volcano blow.

She looked across the table at her own problem, which, hunched over his breakfast, still drowsy, nonetheless managed to guard his food with his arms._ What_ _to do about Gale?_ This thought had pestered Katniss, become all consuming. She didn't blame herself for Gale being part of the Games - that was down to his own stupidity - but she did feel a certain amount of responsibility over him as his friend – no, his supposed lover, although that thought still seemed alien to her.

Once again, she thought back to her conversation with Peeta at the knot tying station. It was the only time since she'd reached the Capitol that she'd felt secure. He seemed like the only genuine person she had met, unless he was playing a better game than all of them.

Peeta certainly seemed to be doing well. He was surrounded by other tributes. Some sat close to him and some further away. The District Eleven tributes sat on the edge of his circle with the strong-willed District Seven girl, Johanna. Yet they were clearly united. Peeta had, almost involuntarily it seemed, taken a leadership position, although his alliance wasn't well-defined like the Careers pack.

Suddenly, Peeta looked up and caught Katniss' eye. He waved, wearing one of those bright, carefree smiles that encourages a subconscious smile in return. When her lips quirked up, his smile widened. _He can't be faking it, can he? _

Unsurprisingly, this seemed to shake Gale out of his stupor; he sat up. "We don't need them Katniss. We can hunt, we can do this ourselves."

"This isn't hunting. In hunting, only one side knows they're playing the game. One party is entirely oblivious. This is a _sport_, Gale, and sports involve tactics and manoeuvres. You can choose to play the Game or not, but I promised Prim I'm going to make it home, so I'll be playing." Katniss stood to move toward one of the separate alliances, but swiftly realized she hadn't decided how to play this stage of the game. She sat down. "There are two of us. There are two main alliances. I'll go and see what I can find out about the Careers and you can do the same for the others."

Gale eyed the bronze Adonis sitting at the Careers table. Katniss followed his line of sight, then sighed. "Would you prefer it if I went the other group?"

Gale swung his head and caught sight of Peeta, who was still looking at them quizzically. "No, you go to the Careers."

Katniss nodded, grabbed her plate, and set off in the direction of the Careers' table.

Finnick was the first to spot her. "Well, if it isn't the Girl on Fire?" he said, in mock-awe. He slid sideways on the bench, making room for her to squeeze in. She ended up at the center of the table, Cato giving her a death stare from the opposite side. He sat next to his district partner, whose look, although perhaps not intentional, was equally frightening.

"What are you doing here?" Cato asked, his voice full of malice.

"Finnick made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Katniss replied, her voice sounding weaker in the table's tense atmosphere than it did in her head.

"Finnick doesn't speak on behalf of this group."

"Calm down, big man." Finnick chastised, and brought his arm out to pat Cato patronisingly on the hand. Cato recoiled from Finnick's touch as if the man's skin was on fire. Finnick turned his attention back to Katniss, who found herself shrinking away from the spotlight of his flawless teeth. "Don't let him scare you. We took a vote on it. The overwhelming majority of this alliance would like to invite you to join us."

Cato bristled with anger.

"So, what's the plan?" Katniss asked, hoping to get attention away from herself.

Her question lead to bickering about the bloodbath. The Intergalactic Games was much more tactical than the original Hunger Games. Forming lasting alliances meant that people had different roles in the group. For this exact reason, it was pointless having all of your alliance fight in the bloodbath and die. Yet, it seemed almost all of them wanted to fight in the bloodbath.

"You can't fight in the bloodbath." Cato seemed to be adamant that Finnick couldn't participate.

"Are you scared I'd steal all the glory?" Finnick raised an immaculate eyebrow.

"No. You're just too valuable."

"Oh, Cato, I didn't know you cared!"

The fury rising through the District Two boy's body was visible, beginning with tense fists and ending in a throbbing vein in his temple. "That isn't what I meant." His voice was sharp, precise. "We need you for the sponsors. If I had it my way, I would put a spear through your head as soon as the starting bell rang."

Finnick laughed. "You really do know how to charm a guy. As it turns out, I'm not overly enthusiastic about running into a crowd of Neanderthals anyway. You can have the air time. It might be the only chance you get." He winked.

The chatter continued. Katniss wished that Gale was beside her. It would've been nice to have someone even more socially awkward than herself in the group. Katniss looked down at her hands, which were resting self-consciously in her lap. Her eye caught movement to her left. Glimmer was stroking Finnick's thick thighs under the table. Katniss quickly averted her gaze.

She didn't belong here.

* * *

She stayed with the Careers for the rest of the day, learning their individual strengths and weaknesses. It was a constant competition, always attempting to outdo your supposed allies. Katniss couldn't wait to escape to the dormitory.

She found her way onto the roof, looking down at the city. Below, the Capitol citizens shifted like maggots crawling over a colorful corpse. She leaned over, until there was nothing between her head and the floor except a hundred feet of emptiness. Falling would be a much quicker death than starving to death or being driven mad by the Angels.

A familiar strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back from the brink. Holding her close to his body, Gale breathed softly into her ear. "You can't afford to think like that."

Katniss hadn't even heard Gale following her. She never did. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

Gale smiled, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Sometimes, I think I know you better than you know yourself." Gale glanced down the side of the building. "Besides, I imagine we're all thinking alike at the moment."

Katniss lifted her gaze to his. It was like seeing him for the first time: his high cheekbones, soft smile precious in its rarity, his heart shyly exposed on his sleeve. Perhaps she could find a way to love him. After all, if love is just friendship that has been set on fire, they'd already been set alight. "I bet you don't know what I'm thinking now," she said.

Then, in a move that demonstrated he knew exactly what Katniss was thinking, he brought his lips down to meet hers. At first he was tentative, the kiss chaste. Being careful not to scare her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him closer. One of his hands rubbed the small of her back, whilst the other gently tugged on her braid, coercing her into opening her mouth for him.

Gale's smile stretched from ear to ear with pride, while he studied the flustered mess that used to be Katniss. "I told you, I know you better than anyone."

As the fog that clouded her mind from the mesmerising kiss began to dissipate, embarrassment set in. It was the knowledge that Gale had known exactly what he was doing, whilst she'd been lost. It may have been her first kiss, but it certainly hadn't been his. How many other girls had he kissed, whilst she waited in the woods for him?

"I was just making sure we could do it, you know, for the cameras." Katniss blushed, then hurriedly left the roof, leaving Gale looking hurt and confused behind her.


	14. Chapter 14 Rue

RUE

* * *

The days flashed by faster than the harvesting season, and before Rue could come to terms with dying in the arena, the day of the private sessions had arrived.

All twenty-four of them sat in the cafeteria. On the left side of the canteen, the Career pack went over the final details of their strategy, everyone leaning forward and murmuring to each other. A tense atmosphere had settled over the usually-bustling cafeteria, and even the trained tributes looked anxious about the upcoming sessions. People would sponsor them based on the outcome of these sessions, and with an alliance that size, she knew it was a delicate balancing act between acquiring resources and having a well-rounded team.

She glanced at Thresh and Johanna. Both ate in silence, but with the same gusto she'd seen from them since they'd met. Johanna's brown eyes flashed up to hers. "What?" the older girl demanded.

"Nothing." Rue glanced down at her food, but her stomach was protesting too much for her to eat it. The Capitol food was so rich, and she still wasn't feeling well after gorging herself this morning on dumplings and fried chicken. Thresh eyed her from across the table, and though his expression didn't change, she could feel the pity oozing out of him.

The three of them ate in companionable silence, knowing that their alliance was too small to survive long in the arena, that none of them would be able to draw many sponsors because of their districts, knowing that the moment their names had been called, they'd been sentenced to death.

It was all rather depressing.

"Marvel," one of the attendants called. The District One boy rose from his seat, every eye following him as he headed back down to the Training Center to perform for the Gamemakers. From what she'd observed(and she'd observed plenty, watching everyone train from her perch atop the rock wall), Marvel was the heart of the Careers. Not as ruthless as Cato, or as eye-catching as Finnick, Marvel acted as a sort of mediator in the decision making, approving and vetoing the decisions of his more ruthless allies.

Perhaps her perceptions would matter later in the game, or perhaps she would die before then, but she thought Marvel would be the most open to an alliance with her, if she survived long enough for it to matter. Not that such a thing was likely, even with her group's tentative alliance with Peeta's gang.

She sighed.

Every fifteen minutes or so, the attendants would call for another tribute. She watched Glimmer stroll into the elevator, followed soon by Cato. His session ended quickly, so whatever he showed the Gamemakers must've been impressive. Clove followed, and Rue watched the black-haired girl, unease pooling in her already knotted stomach. Clove was only three years her senior, but she exuded menace the same way Glimmer exuded charm.

Rue found herself feeling somewhat relieved that this wasn't the original Hunger Games. Her odds of dying were still exorbitantly high, of course, but she was fairly certain that if Clove had gotten a hold of her in the traditional Games, her death would have been slow and gruesome. At least the aliens would kill her quickly. A brutal death, still, but quick.

The District Three tributes followed. Their names were Beetee and Wiress, but since they'd always been addressed as a unit, Rue wasn't sure which was which. Johanna just called them "Nuts" and "Volts."

District Four followed. Finnick strode the elevator, pausing only to wink at the remainder of his alliance. Twenty minutes later, the attendants called Aoife to the Training Center. The girl stood up, knees knocking together as she staggered over to the elevator. She looked as if she was about to throw up.

District Five came next. Rue recognized the boy, but until the attendant had called for him, she'd never heard his name. Her perch atop the rock wall had afforded her a good view of the Training Center, but the altitude had made it rather hard to hear. After fifteen minutes, they called for the District Five female, Siobhan. The redhead shot up from her chair and rushed over the elevator, as if the mere thought that anyone had heard her name had startled her. Siobhan seemed like the sort of person who kept to herself, at least judging by her position on the periphery of Peeta's alliance.

More tributes followed. When Johanna was called, Rue smiled and said, "Good luck."

The other girl just snorted and walked to the elevator.

Others disappeared, and no one ever returned once their name was called. Rue had a horrible thought that they were all being led to their execution, and that the Intergalactic Games were nothing more than a hoax so the Capitol had an excuse to slaughter Earth's children in the basements of their fine hotels.

The Career pack had all but disappeared by this point, except for Katniss, from District Twelve. She ate alone for a few minutes until her district partner abandoned Peeta's table and went over to join her. Rue considered heading that way, too, feeling exposed in this section of the canteen, with no one but an uncommunicative Thresh to keep her company.

Peeta's group dwindled, all the other outcasts getting called for their private sessions. When they called Peeta's name, he bid an affectionate farewell to his remaining companions and walked away. Seeming at a loss, his partner and the District Ten tributes fell silent, picking at their food. After an hour, even that table was empty.

In the absence of tributes, the canteen felt almost eerie. Rue stood up. "Let's go eat with the tributes from twelve," she suggested. Thresh blinked, but picked up his tray.

Rue's heart fluttered as she approached the remaining tributes. Katniss and Gale glanced up as they approached, and she gave them a small smile. "Hi."

"Hey," the girl said, looking at her with a strange mix of confusion and suspicion.

"Is it all right if we sit with you?" Rue asked. "This place is getting kind of . . ." She gestured helplessly to the empty room.

To her surprise, it was Gale who responded, shifting his chair back to make room for them. "Might as well. We shouldn't be here for too much longer."

Rue smiled, relieved, and sat down next to Katniss.

The District Twelve tributes spoke little, even to each other, and Rue had to wonder if they were normally this quiet, or if they'd simply run out of things to say during the training days. Either way, when the attendants called Thresh's name, Rue found her lips framing the questions her mind had been plaguing her with ever since Katniss's display on the first day of training. "So, where did you learn how to shoot a bow?"

The pair exchanged glances, a wordless conversation passing between them. Gale arched an eyebrow. Katniss pursed her lips. Then, almost simultaneously, they shrugged and said, "Hunting."

Rue's eyes widened, but she lowered her voice. "They let you hunt in District Twelve?"

Another glance, another unspoken conversation. This time, Gale spoke alone. "Unofficially."

"Oh." _So__ they were hunting illegally. _She frowned, wondering how anyone could dare to defy the Capitol's laws. Didn't they realize they could be whipped or turned into an Avox for such a crime? Rue had killed a few squirrels and birds with her slingshot at home, perfectly legal as long as it was within district territory, but she'd never taken down anything substantial. "Do you . . . go outside the fences?"

"Have to," Gale said.

"We'd starve if we didn't." Katniss's eyes flickered with something akin to sorrow. Rue was about to ask what had triggered their decision to risk everything just for food when the attendants called her name.

"Thanks for letting me sit with you," she said fervently, clasping her hands in front of her abdomen. Without another word, she hurried into the elevator.

It wasn't a long trip—only a floor—but the elevator ride seemed to take ages. Rue breathed deeply, trying to uncoil the knot of anxiety in her stomach. In the crystal elevator, she could see the structures of the floor as she sunk beneath it. She closed her eyes.

The doors slid open almost soundlessly, and it took her a moment to realize she had to step forward. Legs trembling, she abandoned the elevator and looked up at the panel of Gamemakers peering down at her from the balcony. One gestured, wine sloshing from the sides of his wineglass as he beckoned her. When she reached the middle of the room, he addressed her.

"You may begin your performance, Rue."

She nodded, a lump rising in her throat, and looked around for something she'd be able to show them. She hadn't seen a single slingshot over the past three days, but perhaps she had time to make one. Her accuracy with a slingshot was on par with Katniss's archery skills, though the lethality of every hit was debatable at best.

Rue went to the snare station, hoping to find some materials. She procured several branches—likely from District Seven's lumber industry—and sawed at them with one of the serrated knives at the station until she created a Y-shaped piece she could use as the body of her slingshot. A quick upward glance revealed the Gamemakers' bored faces; obviously, they weren't impressed with a twelve-year-old cutting up branches.

At that moment, Rue made a conscious decision not to look at the Gamemakers again unless they addressed her.

She went next to the knot-tying station, relieved to find several pliable scraps of leather. One square piece became the pocket for her projectiles. The next step was the hardest. At home, her slingshot had a rubber-band for its firing mechanism. Without one, she couldn't shoot anything. _This is bad, _she thought. _This is really, _really _bad. _Her panic spiked, twisting her stomach up until she was sure she was going to throw up. _I can't. Not here. Not in front of the Gamemakers. _

Her breathing hitched, a show of weakness unforgivable to the people of the Capitol. Breaking her resolution not to look up, she lifted her face to the Gamemakers and saw the contempt in their eyes. _They've already written me off as a weakling. _

She exhaled slowly, eyes wide open in an effort not to release the film of tears over the surface. Her vision blurred, anyway, her throat tightening as if there was a noose around her neck.

She hadn't cried since leaving Auntie Mae back in District Eleven. It felt wrong to demean her friends and family by shedding tears for total strangers. Weak. Sickening. She had to find her resolve.

"_I been in this world long enough to know giving up don't do you no good," _Auntie Mae had said, in the five minutes they'd had to talk before she'd gotten on the train. Rue closed her eyes, remembering how Auntie Mae had smiled then, how her crow's feet had creased the sides of her face. The woman had treated her like a beloved granddaughter ever since she'd started working in the orchards; the last thing Rue wanted was to forget her assurances before she even got into the arena.

_Giving up won't do me any good, _she thought, standing and staring at the half-made slingshot in her hands. _There has to be another way to make this. _

She pursed her lips, thinking. Her mind seemed much clearer now, her anxiety slipping away. The discontented rumbling of her stomach eased.

She reached for the hair binder holding her hair back. Her thick curls fell loose around her shoulders, the black ringlets tickling the back of her neck as it came free. She cut the hair binder with a knife she found at her feet, then set to work wrapping it around the prongs of her slingshot. When that was done, she drove the knife through the scrap of leather and fed the hair binder through the holes before reattaching it on the other side of the slingshot.

Ten minutes of her session had passed already, but now she could feel the eyes of the judges on her back. Whatever they'd seen, it had captured their interest. With more confidence than she'd known she'd had, Rue picked up a handful of rocks from the camouflage station and headed over to the targets.

After that, it was easy. She fired, repeatedly, until she got the hang of her hastily-constructed weapon. After just four shots, her projectiles hit the bull's-eye reliably, and by ten, she was ready to show off with something more. She ran to the other side of the training center and scaled the rock wall. After spending so much time at the tips of fruit trees, her ascent was graceful, practiced; she shot up to the top and crouched on the flat plastic surface. Finally, she turned to the Gamemakers. "Excuse me."

Surprise flitted across their faces. Half a minute passed before the Head Gamemaker decided to answer. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if you could throw some empty wineglasses into the air for me to shoot."

The Head Gamemaker's eyebrows shot up into his hairline, but his lips twitched into an odd smile. "Very well," he said, setting aside his half-full glass and picking up several empty ones from the stack at the table. The other Gamemakers drew back, not enthusiastic about the possibility of getting glass in their eyes. "Ready?" the man asked, holding up one glass.

She loaded one stone into her slingshot. "Yes."

Amusement flickered across his face as he tossed the wineglass into the air. Rue aimed, instinctively calculating the trajectory before firing. The container shattered as the stone smashed into it, and shards of glass fell to the floor.

Rue smiled, nodding at the Head Gamemaker as she loaded her next shot. He threw another wineglass into the air, this time at a lower angle. The rock collided with the spindly stem, snapping it in half with a satisfying crack.

Two glasses flew through the air the next time. Rue fired, struck the first, then hastily reloaded, aiming low. This shot only nicked the top of the glass, but still, she heard an appreciative murmur from her judges. _It's working, _she thought. _I'm actually impressing them. I'm going to get a good score. _

Three shattered wineglasses later, the Head Gamemaker addressed her. "It would seem we're out of targets."

Rue smiled, soaring on pride. "That's all right. I think I've practiced enough for one day."

The man nodded. "Very well. You're dismissed."

She descended the rock wall, grinning broadly. Halfway down, she released her hold on the fake rocks and leapt backwards, landing lightly on her feet. Above her, one of the Gamemakers gave a surprised whistle.

On her way out, the Head Gamemaker spoke. "Someone call the Avoxes. We don't want the other tributes stepping on broken glass."


	15. Chapter 15 Peeta

PEETA

* * *

"No, you have to sit _up,_" Hazel said, setting her shoulders and lifting her chin. Her spine, already perfectly straight, seemed to stretch out as she repositioned herself.

Peeta mimicked her actions, folding his hands on his lap as Lucas had instructed earlier. He wasn't sure _where _the twins had learned so much about posture, but he couldn't deny that, despite Hazel's tendency to whisper and blush and Lucas's tendency to grumble half of what he said, they _looked_ professional.

"Not good enough," Lucas said, the length of the room. As far as Peeta could tell, this was one of the smaller rooms in the Training Center, despite being twice the size of his bedroom in District Nine.

He sighed, wondering how his father was coping now that he wasn't there to decorate the cakes. Things were always hectic in the back rooms of the bakery, and Peeta had been working since he'd turned ten. Even his mother would admit to some strain on their workload, without him there . . .

"Head up," Hazel coached. Startled out of his reverie, Peeta obeyed. "Much better. Now smile. Good."

"We've got five more minutes," Lucas said, pausing for a moment before resuming his pacing. "What else does he need to learn?"

"Lucas, he's fine. Five more minutes isn't going to make him any better, and you're just stressing him out."

The man opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, frowning. "Fine. Call the limousine to pick him up and bring him to the Remake Center. He needs stage makeup."

Peeta sighed and stood, shoulders slumping. Knots had formed along his lower back after hours of sitting up, and more than anything, he wanted to relax for a few minutes.

Naturally, that was when Rosemary showed up. She froze, flinching away from him before stubbornly lifting her chin. Her face was covered in makeup probably designed to make her look sexy. He just thought it made her look clownish.

Sometimes, it was a miracle that his brain filtered its thoughts before they came out of his mouth.

"Peeta," she said tersely.

He tried to keep his tone light, friendly. "Rosemary. I missed you at breakfast."

"I ate in the dorms."

"Ah."

She strode past him. Her spindly limbs and small stature drained the purpose from her movements, making her look like a child playing at maturity.

Peeta sighed and headed down to the lobby, wondering how he was going to remedy his relationship with his district partner before the Games started. The last thing he needed was to go into the arena with someone hating him.

Some of the others had already gathered in the lobby, waiting for their partners to get done with either their makeovers or their poise lessons. Most of them, Peeta realized, were part of his alliance—Siobhan, the girl from five; Hale, the boy from Six; Blight, from Seven; and Crya, the girl from Eight. Neither of the tributes from District Ten had arrived yet, and Glimmer, from District One, was lounging nearby, pointedly ignoring them.

Everyone gathered around him in silence, looking to him for guidance. "So . . . interviews tonight," he said.

"And tribute scores," Crya added. "My mentors said they'd finally gotten all the information from the other planets."

Hale said, "Maybe we'll get to see the scores before the interviews."

"Or during our next set of lessons."

"It'll take awhile," Blight said, coughing into his sleeve. Judging by the smears of makeup on his face, he'd already endured a few hours with his prep team. "The Earth Team is always slated last."

"Because we have the lowest scores," Crya said, crossing her arms in front of her and nodding to herself.

"That's not why," Hale argued.

"Yeah? Ask your mentors. I bet they'll say the same thing."

"Know-it-all."

Peeta decided this was a good time to change the subject. "So, how did everyone's morning session go?"

Everyone started talking all at once, except for Siobhan, who, as usual, had kept her mouth shut and done her best to avoid notice even within their alliance. Peeta smiled and addressed her first. "How about you, Siobhan?"

Alarm flickered across her fox-like face, and her eyes tightened. "My mentors told me to keep our strategy mysterious."

Peeta nodded. "Sounds like a good plan to me. What about you, Crya?"

"A show of unity within our alliance would prove to sponsors that we're serious about winning."

"We're not _going _to win," Hale interjected. "We'll probably all die before day five."

Crya bristled. "Well, you don't have to be so negative about it."

"She's right," Blight said. "Sometimes, the underdogs _do _win."

"A show of unity would be good," Peeta said quickly. "I like that. We'll talk about it before the interviews, but if any of you see your district partners or the tributes from Ten, could you pass that along to them?"

There was a mutter of agreement. Peeta smiled, relieved. "Good. I'm scheduled for the Remake Center, so I have to go."

Blight laid a hand on his shoulder. "Best of luck, my friend."

_That bad, huh? _He nodded, then headed out to the front doors. Several Peacekeepers escorted him to his limousine, ostensibly to keep the Capitol citizens from swarming him. Peeta suspected they were only there to make sure he didn't run out into traffic. The limousine's door swung open, revealing his escort, Liza, and his eager prep team. As soon as he stepped inside, the stylists started peppering him with questions.

"Which fits your complexion better: peach or cherry blossom pink?"

"Have you had your hair chemically altered in any way?"

"What angle are you going for during your interview?"

"Have you ever considered dying your skin to a lighter tone?"

He'd barely managed to babbled out answers(in order: not sure, no, charming, and no) by the time they parked in front of the Remake Center. The prep team flanked him as they were escorted in, and within minutes he was downstairs, getting shoved into a dark green tent so they could do unspeakable things to his body. The head stylist popped in a moment later, ordered the team to leave his skin tone intact, then went on to describe the pale gold outfit he was going to be wearing for the interviews. She claimed it was supposed to be a representation of District Nine's grain industry, and would actually be made out of the appropriate materials, but that they wouldn't put him in it until the last moment, because it was exceptionally itchy.

Briefly, Peeta wondered how grain was going to compete with fire. The opening ceremonies had starred in his dreams for days now, the District Twelve costumes seared into his mind. Even the aliens would've commended the display, given that fire was the one thing that seemed universally lethal between all the planets. _He'd _certainly been impressed.

Peeta sighed, thinking about the first day of training, when he'd officially met Katniss. She hadn't seemed, in that moment, like the fiery goddess the Capitol had made her out to be, or the master archer she'd tried to appear. Instead, she'd seemed realistic, in control—expecting death, but not ruling out survival as a possibility. Expressing fondness for her family without falling apart over their absence. And talented, quick to learn, adapting to new environments. She wasn't just playing the game—she was winning.

"They're about to announce the scores," one of his stylists squeaked, hopping up and down in her high heels. Peeta watched warily, wondering how she managed not to trip as she bounced over to the screen at the edge of the room. The moment the TV flickered to life, they were greeted with a clip of Caesar Flickerman explaining the scoring system, for any new watchers(which didn't really make sense, Peeta thought, because watching the Intergalactic Games was mandatory, and so ingrained in Panem's culture that even three-year-olds knew how it worked).

The scoring system had changed somewhat since the original Hunger Games. Tributes were still scored on a scale of one to twelve, but due to variations caused by the aliens' participation, the scale had been adjusted. Where it had once been common for talented Earth Tributes to get a nine or a ten, it was now unheard of for them to get higher than a five. Additionally, more powerful aliens, such as the Angels, often scored in the nine to ten range, meaning they essentially had the ability to wipe out several tributes at once without even struggling. The Robots, Swamp People, and Neanderthals generally sat somewhere in between the Earth Tributes and the Angels, in the five to ten range. And the Red Men, being biologically human, had the same score range as the Earth Tributes.

The numbers worked out as usual. Over half the Angels scored either a nine or a ten, with one scoring an eleven. Peeta couldn't distinguish between individuals, probably because of the lack of faces, but according to the statistics beside each creature's name, they varied in height and weight.

The Robots and Swamp People averaged a seven-point-five, and the Neanderthals scored slightly lower, at seven. The Red Men came next, their scores more varied than most of the other races, due to more precise scoring and widely different skill sets. Their average came out at three-and-a-third.

Then it was time for the Earth Tributes. Peeta leaned forward in his chair, almost unaware of the pale pink powder his prep team was brushing across his cheeks. The pictures started at District One. Marvel and Glimmer each received a four, common for Career tributes. Cato and Clove both got five, which was almost unheard of.

Peeta worried about the integrity of his own alliance. With limited resources, any surviving Career tributes would likely isolate themselves from the rest of the Earth team, in order to maximize their chances of survival. It happened every year.

Peeta relaxed some when the District Three tributes, both part of the Career alliance, scored ones. Finnick got a four, and Aoife a three. _Not good, _Peeta thought. _No one in my alliance can compete with that. _

"Hold still, Peeta dear," one of the stylists said, her voice pulling up in the oddest places. "I can't apply cover-up if you keep wriggling around."

"Sorry," he murmured, still absorbed in the scoring. Siobhan managed a two, which wasn't bad for a non-Career, but her district partner, Darrin, only received a one. For District Six, Hale managed a solid three, while Anemone scored a two. Blight scored a two as well. Johanna, from the splinter alliance, scored a three, and he wondered what sort of skill she'd showed off to manage that, tiny as she was. _District Seven exports lumber, _he thought. _Maybe she can throw axes or something._

The corner of his lip twitched. _Maybe the splinter alliance has a chance after all. _

Both tributes from District Eight scored twos, and then it was time for him to see his score. He bit his lip, tuning out his prep team as they made irritable noises as his restlessness. When his score came up, he blinked in shock. _A four? I got a _four_? _

The head stylist whistled, resting her hands on her hips. "Well, look at that. As good as the District One tributes."

"Yeah . . ." he murmured, barely cognizant of the fact that Rosemary had received a one. _She's not going to be happy about that. _

District Ten went next, and Peeta had to wince. Devlin, the boy with the crippled foot, scored a one, which, while not unexpected, did seem awfully unfair. His partner didn't fare much better, scoring only one point higher.

District Eleven came next; Peeta paid close attention. His relationship with the splinter alliance was tenuous, but if they survived while his alliance dwindled, they could save his life. _Not that I'll live to see Earth again even if they do, _he thought.

Thresh received a five, putting him on par with the District Two tributes. Peeta had expected him to get a higher score simply because of his strength, but if that was all he was relying on, his physical power had to be comparable to a Neanderthal's. _That could be the edge Earth needs, _he thought, eyes flickering to the tent flaps, as if searching for the District Eleven boy. Perhaps the splinter group _did _stand a better chance than his group.

Rue, also part of the splinter group, scored a three—quite impressive, given her age. Peeta started to wonder if the alliances would have one more shuffle before they were packed into the teleporters to be shipped to the arena planet.

District Twelve came next. Unconsciously, Peeta leaned forward in his chair to get a better look. Gale received a four. _Skilled with weapons, knowledgeable about wildlife, and strong like me. Of course he scored high. _

"There," his stylist said, stepping back. "You're ready to face the cameras."

Peeta craned his neck to see around the woman. He was just able to glimpse Katniss's score before the screen returned to Caesar Flickerman's face.

And then he sank into the chair, not trusting his legs to hold his weight as Katniss's score seared itself into his brain. _Well, _he thought. _Clearly, I picked the wrong alliance. _

Katniss had scored a six.


	16. Chapter 16 Vex

_A/N: Thankyou all so much for reading this far. If we haven't heard from you already, it would be great if you could send us a review or PM! Just a quick note on this chapter: as it is written from an OC viewpoint, we will be giving you a double update this week! Also, it was supposed to sit between Rue's and Peeta's chapters but we forgot to load it up. Anyway, we hope you like him (or perhaps like is the wrong word...)_

* * *

CRIMSON CITY, MARS.

VEX

* * *

There was red dust _everywhere_.

Vex had stood under the showerhead for an hour, scrubbing his hair with the expensive shampoo imported from Earth. Red water had flowed around his feet as he scrubbed, the same color as blood diluted in a stream, or rust on the edge of a knife. Once, those images might've calmed him; today, they aggravated him. His skin felt too tight around his flesh, and his muscles twitched with fierce need.

Vex wanted to hunt, to kill, and instead he was stuck in the cafeteria, forced to mingle with the rest of the tributes until they were called in for their private sessions. He wanted to see the Gamemakers for himself, wanted to show them everything he'd learned during his nighttime hunts.

After all, he had a lot more practice killing than the other tributes did.

The shower water had never run completely clear—that was the one, unforgivable fault of the Crimson City. Being the only aboveground city on Mars, it sat atop what was essentially a pile of brightly-colored dirt. Sixteen years in Colony Twelve had gotten him used to the rigid cleaning procedures and harsh punishments for failing to contribute to the community. Being stuck in this dustbowl, with no tasks to keep his mind from straying, his thoughts wandered to the arena, to the bloodbath. Waiting in the canteen, prohibited from fighting, a feral hunger grew in the pit of his stomach.

It had been months since he'd killed someone, and he wanted to get the hang of it again.

"Nightshade," the attendant called. The girl from Colony Ten stood up and strolled toward the elevator, hips swaying in a sensuous dance.

_Two more to go, then it's showtime. _He eyed the Colony Eleven tributes. Both were tall and gangly, with ash-blond hair. Colony Eleven controlled most of Mar's greenhouses, so it had surprised him a bit to realize how emaciated their tributes looked up close.

Not that it mattered, since they were probably going to die anyway.

Vex picked at his food, rearranging bits of steak atop his plate while contemplating ways to kill the aliens. The Neanderthals were straightforward enough—clever tricks and a quick hand would gut them. Same for the Swamp People, though their presence meant he had to be careful around water sources. It was every planet's need for liquid water that allowed the Swamp People to dominate despite the mediocre intelligence and physical abilities. As for the Robots, they'd only have to get drenched and they'd electrocute themselves with their own weapons. Tributes from the Earth Team were biologically identical to the Red Men, but without the fortitude brought on by living in an underground compound. Easy targets, all of them.

As for the Angels . . . Well, considering his homicidal tendencies, Vex wasn't too worried about their psychic influence. He was already a sociopath; what more could their powers do to him?

While he mused, the attendants called the male tribute from Colony Eleven into the Training Center to be evaluated. Ten minutes later, as Vex was falling into a daydream about jamming a knife into President Snow's jugular, the Colony Eleven female was called away.

That left him alone with his thirteen-year-old district partner, Artemis. She sat across the room from him, making herself as small as possible as she curled up in the corner. Her pale face was layered in red dust except for two cleaner trails where she'd been crying.

There was nothing Vex hated more than a weakling; he stalked over to her, feeling a smirk curve up his lips even as his fists clenched in annoyance. This year's tributes were so soft, so cultured, and having this pathetic little girl as his district partner was the greatest insult of all.

Artemis looked up as he approached, eyes widening in fear. Her legs unfolded, and she stood, trembling, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. Vex's heart started pounding, blood pulsing in his ears, in his throat. As he passed by a table, he picked up a napkin full of cutlery and unfurled it, exposing the silvery implements within. Artemis stared at him as he freed the knife from its paper roll and admired the pristine edge. "You know," he said, spinning the utensil between his fingers. "This isn't bad for a steak knife, but it would take a while to kill someone with it. That is, if you didn't know where to cut."

The thirteen-year-old said nothing, but her chest heaved with her rapid breaths. Vex stepped closer, tilting the blade so her eyes—pupils dilated so only a thin ring of blue remained visible—reflected off the shiny steel. "Of course, _I_ know where to cut. It depends on the situation, really, whether you want to cut here—" He positioned the knife just above her carotid artery, blade skimming across her skin. "—or here." He moved the utensil an inch to the left, so the tip rested over her windpipe. "Either way, you bleed to death, but the first cut kills you quick and easy, whereas this one . . ." He pressed lightly, smirking at the shallow indent the serrated knife left in her skin. " . . . will let you choke on your own blood while you die."

Her labored breathing had grown shallow, almost nonexistent. A thin, red line formed over her throat, where he'd been holding the blade, and he stared, fascinated by the way the blood clung to her skin, as if shy about making an appearance.

Hearing the girl whimper was like listening to a symphony. Unfortunately, it drew the attention of the Peacekeepers, and they hustled forward to intervene. Smiling good-naturedly, Vex withdrew the knife, setting it on the table as he collapsed onto one of the chairs. "Don't mind us," he said cheerfully. He'd mimicked that genial tone so many times while luring his victims into his clutches that it was second-nature now. "I was just showing Artemis where to cut if she ever has to fight one of those pesky Earth tributes."

"Step aside, please," one of the Peacekeepers ordered, as another knelt in front of Artemis to assess the severity of her wound. Vex wasn't worried—what could they do to him, when getting thrown into the Intergalactic Games was supposedly one of the most hellish ways to die? Besides, the wound hadn't been that severe; if he'd been on the receiving end of it, he wouldn't have even bothered with a bandage.

But the Peacekeeper was slathering this smelly paste over it, and Artemis kept staring ahead, a hollow look of horror swimming in her eyes. Vex considered his actions a service to the people of Mars—everyone held him to high standards, commanding him to work before he was twelve and subjecting him to community chores in the rehabilitation center, so why shouldn't his partner be held to the same standards? She had to toughen up or die, and if his threats encouraged her to do so a little sooner, why then, wasn't that all the better for the Red Men?

"Vex," someone called. He recognized the voice of the attendant who'd been summoning tributes all day.

"Looks like you got lucky, little girl," he said, rising from his chair. "You survived one near-death experience, and you're not even in the arena yet."

Artemis said nothing, but the bit of color that had returned to her face seeped away again, and when she closed her eyes, tears rolled down her face.

Vex headed down the corridor leading to the Training Center, feeling much better than he had an hour ago. Just seeing the blood run was enough to sate his more visceral urges. The rest could be dealt with later, as he slaughtered aliens in the arena.

But not yet. There were fake bodies to dismember, and he had every intention of showing the Gamemakers just how clearly he understood human anatomy.


	17. Chapter 17 Finnick

FINNICK

* * *

Finnick peered around the edge of the curtain, the heavy silk the only barrier between him and the bloodthirsty Capitol audience. The whole experience was so easy to get caught up in. The glitz and the glamour. The Fame and the Fortune. Just sitting by his feet, ready to swallow him whole.

His fellow competitors had all coped with their transition to competitors in different ways. Some became surly, like Cato. Some became quiet and introverted, like Wiress and Beetee. It was only Finnick who embraced it so whole-heartedly.

Maybe it had always been within him. Finnick often felt he would never had been happy with a life on the ships, a hero to only his family. He loved the sea, but for its power and ferocity. It was something to be revered, not farmed. Finnick only hoped that he could emulate it.

_Could there be a sea in the arena?_ Finnick wondered. He remembered the clue the President Snow had given about the Games: "There is no place like home." To Finnick, home was the smell of saltwater. Home was where the sun danced on the waves. Home was a place where he stood a chance of survival.

The wait was driving him mad, and the longer Finnick went without talking, the less he was sure about what sound would emerge in front of Caesar. Besides, he had some gloating to do.

He moved towards Cato, staring at a television screen as it showed highlights from interviews all over the galaxy.

"I told you about District Twelve," Finnick said, his voice triumphant. The blond boy's expression grew increasingly stern.

"A fluke," he replied.

The screen filled with the image of a man their own age, skin stained with the red dust of Mars. He was almost frothing at the mouth in anticipation of the carnage to come. "I think he's stealing your angle."

"What angle?"

"You know, the macho, ferocious male, at war with the world, desperate for the feel of blood on his hands."

Cato's brow furrowed as the Red Man on the screen gave a look so venomous the cameraman took a step backwards. "And he's doing it better than me."

"You could always try handsome and charming." Finnick gave a snort of laughter at the thought of Cato being anything but surly and brooding.

"I think you have that one covered." For the first time, Cato's words did not drip with scorn but resounded with something akin to awe. "You need to do this right, Finnick. You're our best chance for sponsors. Maybe our only chance. Seriously, lay it on as thick as you have to."

"I was considering giving Flickerman a strip tease," Finnick said with a smile, but Cato didn't return his expression. The mood had changed, and the time for joking had passed. He nodded. "I'll do it right, for the team."

In an entirely unexpected gesture, Cato reached out, and gave Finnick's shoulder a firm squeeze whilst glaring straight into his eyes. "For the team."

The Red Man's name flashed across the bottom of the screen: "Vex". Finnick mind flitted back to the Intergalactic Games of a few years ago, when the Arena had consisted entirely of subterranean burrows. To Finnick, it had looked like a giant tomb, which it had transformed into as children's bodies began to fill the passageways, the Earth tributes amongst them. It was the only time Finnick could remember the Red Men doing well, the environment being so similar to their underground bunkers on Mars. Still, provided the action took place above ground, Finnick supposed this particular Red Man's confidence was misguided.

Finnick was brought back to the present moment by a sudden, eerie lack of noise. There was only one thing that could have made the audience fall silent so suddenly.

Then Finnick heard the unmistakable sound of Caesar's voice. "Showtime," he said to Cato, plastering a smile across his face. He was suddenly aware of how difficult it must have been in the original Hunger Games, training with those who you were forced to kill later. He might have had fun teasing Cato, but he could never have killed him.

The tributes filed onto the stage to rapturous applause. They were to be Earth's representatives, and never did the Capitol stop believing that one day they would have a winner. The pressure was overwhelming, and Finnick was glad to have his role to play; it meant that the Capitol could never have what was truly him.

Glimmer was first, her translucent gown making even Finnick blush slightly. It was the only memorable thing about her though, and Marvel did not fare much better. Clove and Cato act like two peas from the same pod as they each aimed to be the most cutthroat, and Caesar cowered in mock fright. Clove was peculiarly more convincing than Cato, but neither were as terrifying as the Red Man they'd seen earlier. _Perhaps it's because I know them,_ thought Finnick, trying to convince himself,_ and I'm not the person they're talking about killing._

The District Three tributes were both useless without the other to finish their sentences, and Aoife's banter was about as interesting as her looks. It was into this anticlimactic scene that Finnick emerged, the light shining off his blue-tinted tux and highlighting his bronze hair. He would never have been able to prepare himself for the roar that greeted him, a tidal wave of sound.

He lifted an arm in acknowledgement of their catcalls. Caesar gestured to the seat in front of him and Finnick slouched back into it, the plush velvet surprisingly inviting, considering the circumstances.

"Mr. Odair, it is a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," he said, his voice silky.

"So, what are you enjoying most about the Capitol?"

Finnick let loose his lazy grin. "The women."

The interview passed much in this way, meaningless flirting passing back and forth between the two men, the audience lapping it up.

"So, Finnick, it's going to be a shame to see you go, but I'm afraid we only have time for one more question. What makes you think you have what it takes to win?"

"It's as simple as this: I'm not ready to give up on life just yet." Finnick leaned forward and, making his voice deep and husky, added, "I'm a man who tends to get what he wants."

The bell sounded for the end of his allotted time, and the audience broke out into euphoric applause. Finnick resisted the urge to return to the microphone, to beg for the gifts that might spare his life. Instead, he returned to his seat with the other tributes, gaining a small nod from Cato in what he took as reassurance that he'd been successful.

The next crucial interview was the boy for District Nine, Peeta. He lacked the immediate attraction of Finnick, but managed to get the audience on his side, through wit and easy banter with Flickerman. _He could be a useful ally_, thought Finnick, believing for the first time in his life that he has misjudged somebody. It was too late; tomorrow they would be transported to the Arena planet to face whichever tortures the Gamemakers had crafted for them.

The star-crossed lovers from Twelve stole the show, of course: the Capitol adored romance. Finnick was stunned by how different Katniss seems in her interview compared to what he'd seen of her so far. She seemed almost friendly, approachable. Yet it was Gale who really blew everyone else out of the water. He pronounced her name like a delectable treat, something to be cherished. Where Katniss had only shown emotion while discussing her sister, Gale shared the sweet memories he had of Katniss. Memories that had been largely censored, if the conspicuous lack of detail was anything to go by.

The interviews drew to a close, and the tributes returned to the Training Centre. Each Tribute's mind was occupied by the same questions: _Have I done enough? And how many of us will be alive by the end of tomorrow?_


	18. Chapter 18 Prim

PRIM

* * *

Prim stared at her trembling fingers, unsure whether it was anxiety or hunger that made them shake. Without Katniss here, rations were running low, and the only thing left in their refrigerator was half a block of goat cheese. The grain Katniss had acquired by taking tesserae wouldn't arrive for another three days.

Prim wasn't sure she would've been able to eat anyway. Not today.

Her mother crouched beside her, wrapping a blanket around their shoulders as they settled into the cushions to watch the start of the Intergalactic Games. They said nothing to each other; there was nothing _to _say, when the odds of Katniss coming back were nil. _I'll have to start taking tesserae, _Prim thought as the cameras panned over each tribute's face. Dozens of aliens danced before her eyes, with features so foreign and unnatural that she couldn't discern between individuals except for the Earth Team and the Red Men, and even those faded quickly in her memory.

"And we can see the Earth Team stepping into their teleporters," Caesar said as the cameras once again panned across their tributes. Now the faces were easier to remember. There were the Career tributes: Marvel, Glimmer, Cato, Clove, Finnick, and Aoife. Each of them looked well-fed, confident, strong. Then there were the others: Thresh and Rue, from District Eleven, Johanna from Seven, Peeta from Nine. The District Three tributes, Beetee and Wiress. Then Katniss and Gale. They were all arranged at random. Gale and Katniss were on opposite sides of the room.

Everyone wore oxygen tanks and silver, temperature-resistant suits.

"What kind of arena do you think it'll be?" Prim asked, as Caesar went on about how the Robots had engineered the teleporters to facilitate the Intergalactic Games and maintain friendly competition between the planets rather than all-out war.

"I don't know, sweetie," her mother said, voice hoarse, tight with anxiety. "They did say the theme was 'there's no place like home.'"

_Home, _she thought. _Maybe it'll be a giant coal mine. _

"As you know," Caesar said, gesturing to a diagram of the room. "The teleporters will bring everyone to a waiting area just outside the Cornucopia, where they will have one final minute to strategize before the gong sounds. Once they've grabbed all the supplies they need, the surviving tributes will make their way back to their planet's Sanctuary, where they can refill their air tanks and operate as a single unit."

"Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Is Katniss going to die?"

Her mother's fingertips dug into her shoulder, bony and sharp. She didn't answer.

"And there they go!" Caesar said, as the twenty-four teleporters glowed to life. Dark glass rose around each tribute, sealing them in as the lights grew brighter. When Katniss's chamber closed off, Prim let out a little whimper.

"Don't be afraid, Prim. Everything's going to be just fine."

She gripped her mother's wrist, leaning toward the television. Suddenly, the scene changed, shifting to an overhead view of the Cornucopia as all the tributes—human and alien alike—arrived via teleporter. The field around the golden horn was littered with supplies for all the races—technology, food, tools, and things Prim couldn't identify, much less figure out how to use. All the supplies were surrounded by silver plants that waved like grass in the breeze.

As the sixty-second countdown started, the cameras focused on the Earth Team. Everyone started squabbling at once, arguing about who should head into the Cornucopia and who should head straight for the Sanctuary.

"What do you _mean _you're not going?" the boy named Cato demanded, pointing at Finnick.

The green-eyed man rolled his eyes, but before his response, the view switched to a heated discussion between the District Six tributes and the boy from District Seven. Peeta intervened before their argument could grow too intense. "Do whatever you think is best for the _team_!" he shouted, loud enough to overload the sound system.

Then the cameras switched to Katniss, and Prim couldn't have blinked even if she'd wanted to. "Gale, listen—" Katniss began.

He made a sharp gesture to quiet her, and Prim felt a rush of dismay. They were supposed to be _friends_. How could he try to silence what might be Katniss's last words? "Katniss, there's a bow, right near the mouth of the Cornucopia."

"There's no way we can get it."

"If we don't, the Red Men will take it, or one of the other teams will smash it so no one can have it."

"The Cornucopia is going to be _swarming _with aliens, Gale. We don't stand a chance!"

"Don't say that! I'm going to get you out of here."

"Gale, no!"

"Thirty seconds!" someone shouted. A moment later, the view switched again, this time to the boy from District Five. "Whoever's going should get close to the force field."

For a few seconds, the outbreak of arguments overshadowed any coherent sentences. Chaos. This one-minute grace period was always pure chaos. Like a medical ward overflowing with sick patients, where it was possible to ignore a corpse until it started rotting. _They're not functioning as a team, _she thought, staring at the screen as everyone started screaming at each other. A few headed to the edge of the force field, ready to grab whatever they could the moment the shield went down. As the seconds slipped away, Katniss darted toward the edge of the force field, crouching low as she prepared to bolt. A few feet away, Gale made a frustrated gesture and went to join Cato, Marvel, and Clove, who'd all clustered behind the shield. A few others joined that group—the boy from District Five, both from Six, Johanna from Seven, both from Eight. Peeta and his district partner joined in, at opposite sides of the growing group.

Most of them, Prim knew, would be dead before the first day was over. The Earth Tributes and the Red Men were always hit worst at the Cornucopia. They lacked the brute strength or natural intelligence of the other races. In the arena, the humans' only advantage was versatility, the ability to adapt to a host of different situations.

She hoped Katniss would at least make it through the day. She hoped Gale would pull off a miracle and get her the bow he'd seen.

The last few seconds slipped away, and the camera switched to a bird's-eye view of the arena. The silver grass swayed, as if a giant had sighed and sent the air rushing across the field.

And then the gong sounded.

Chaos. One-hundred-forty-four humans and aliens rushed into the Cornucopia, like an army clustering around their target. Cato spearheaded the Earth Team, sprinting straight toward the center, where the best weapons sat. His district partner, Clove, followed close behind, occasionally swooping down to pluck supplies from the ground. Prim stared, fixated, as the dark-haired girl grabbed a knife from the silver grass and flung it at the nearest alien—a Swamp Man with electric blue skin and amber eyes. The knife streaked across the creature's throat, and a torrent of brownish-red fluid poured from the its wound. It let out a wail like a pig being butchered.

_One down, _Prim thought, eerily calm.

Some of the faster aliens were reaching the middle of the Cornucopia. One of the Robots—a dark-skinned man with two steel arms and a blank, green sphere for an eye—grabbed a cylinder from the mouth of the golden horn and pulled it over his wrist, like a sleeve. The cameras focused in on him as he raised his arm and fired a glowing red sphere toward the Earth Tributes.

Someone screamed. The cameras switched angles, and she watched the Career pack dive to the ground to avoid the blast. The fireball flew over their heads in a straight line, unaffected by gravity, until it struck the boy from District Six. He didn't even scream as the glowing material melted the skin off his face. He just died. The first human casualty.

Her mother shuddered at her side. Prim gripped her hand so tight her knuckles turned white.

"Hale!" Peeta shouted the dead boy's name over the sound of another blast. The Robot's weapon sounded almost like a cannon. Prim had heard that, before the traditional Hunger Games had been replaced by the Intergalactic Games, cannons had signaled each tribute's death. But with so many tributes, President Snow had decided that a cannon would only fire when an entire team was obliterated, so as to avoid annoying the audience.

Prim wondered if any cannons would fire today.

"Leave him!" the girl from Seven shouted at Peeta. "He's useless now."

There was a sound like steel grating on steel; Prim winced. On the screen, she saw a Neanderthal slamming a piece of metal against the back of a Robot's head. A moment later, the hulking caveman staggered back, a spear sticking out of his liver.

"A magnificent kill by Cato Talaith," Caesar Flickerman announced. His voice would be translated and adapted so every planet could understand him, but Prim was hearing it undistorted, human. The way it was meant to be.

"Mom, why haven't they shown Katniss?" she asked, her voice quaking.

Her mother rubbed soothing circles over her back. "Don't worry. She's probably looping around the Cornucopia."

Prim stared at the mass of tributes. A cluster of Swamp People and Neanderthals gathered over a pile of supplies. Brown and red blood sprayed everywhere, staining the silver grass as the two brutal races wiped each other out. It all seemed rather pointless as a little girl from Mars darted through the fray and swiped the trident everyone had been squabbling over.

The camera angle switched again, this time to Gale. Prim leaned forward, rapt, as he crashed into one of the Red Men. She recognized his face—it was the boy from Colony Twelve, who'd scored a five in his private sessions, and he was reaching for the bow Gale had pointed out before the gong had sounded.

"No!" she shouted at the screen, hand flying to her lips in horror. "No, Gale, _run_!"

On another planet, light-years from Earth, Gale gave no indication of having heard. Instead, he grabbed for the bow, throwing a punch at the other boy's face. He sneered, jerking his head to the side, but Gale caught a fistful of hair instead, holding him in place. "Bastard," the boy hissed, throwing a kick toward Gale's abdomen. Gale absorbed the hit, lips twisting into a grimace as he yanked the boy to the side. Somehow, the bow slipped from both their hands, falling into the silver grass with a thud.

Gale rolled, reaching for the weapon. Before he could even touch it, the other boy grabbed his wrist and twisted. For one awful second, Prim was sure his wrist would snap, and that he'd be a liability to the team, or worse, die. Instead, Gale somersaulted, avoiding a debilitating injury, and jabbed his heel into the boy's ribcage. He jerked back, clutching his side. _A broken rib, _Prim thought, her medical training kicking in. _Not bad enough to puncture his lung, but he'll be hurting, and there's nothing he can do to make it heal faster._

A sort of grim satisfaction swept over her at the thought. No one attacked Gale. He didn't take crap from anyone, hadn't since before Katniss had met him. No one in District Twelve had dared try. The boy from Mars was lucky to get away with only a cracked rib.

The cameras zoomed out. The boy's head whipped around, and he shot to his feet, snatching the bow out of Gale's reach and sprinting away. Gale made a move as if to follow him, then froze, eyes settling on something beyond the camera's view. The screen switched to a wider shot, revealing the billowing white cloaks of several Angels as they ghosted across the swaying grass.

Disquiet echoed somewhere deep inside her, like the phantom chime of bells.

The Angels—there were five of them, all arranged in a V-shaped pattern, like migrating birds—swept across the field, unimpeded by the other aliens. Swamp People and Robots parted ways for them, then stilled, as if holding their breath. Neanderthals fled, putting as much distance between themselves and the ethereal creatures as possible while still grabbing supplies. Only the humans, Red Men and Earth Tributes alike, ignored their presence, believing the sudden stillness of the Cornucopia to be some sort of boon.

And then the screaming began in earnest.

First, it was the boy from Five. He let out a bestial screech, dropping the spear he'd grabbed and clutching his head. The cameras zoomed in, and Prim watched in horror as the whites of his eyes turned red, veins popping and letting blood spread across the sclera. He clawed at his face, fingernails digging bloody furrows in his skin, as if he could stop the pain. The whole time, his screams grew shrill, rising to a pitch even Katniss couldn't reach. It grated on Prim's ears like the scream of a circular saw cutting up lumber.

And then, abruptly, the scream cut off, and the District Five boy dropped to the ground, dead.

_Oh, _Prim thought, spots dancing in front of her eyes. _Oh my goodness. _

The Angels moved on. As they passed the dead boy, one of them crouched, a gnarled hand freeing itself from the cloak and reaching down to touch the boy's face. A pale blue light emanated from the Angel's hand, and blood poured out of the corpse's eye sockets.

"I've never seen anything like that," her mother whispered. Prim peeled her eyes away from the screen and turned to see her mother clutching her chest and rocking back and forth. "I didn't know they could do that. The internal damage . . ." She trailed off then, but she didn't have to finish for Prim to know what she meant. Yes, it would take severe internal damage to cause bleeding like that. More intense even than a brain hemorrhage. _It's like his whole brain just liquefied, _Prim thought, a chill shooting down her spine. _Just like that, without even being touched._

Once the Angels had passed, the other aliens returned to the main battleground, fighting each other with spears, claws, knives, teeth, whatever they had available. When an axe split one of the Neanderthal's heads, they gave an instant replay of Johanna, from District Seven, flinging the axe toward the fray. Her face was spattered in brown blood, probably from one of the Swamp People.

The battle raged, images of blood and death playing across the screen. Some of it was in real-time, but much of it was recap, highlighting events they hadn't been able to show because everything had been happening simultaneously. Prim zoned out for a bit, the images losing meaning until they became nothing more than colorful patterns. Only when her mother whimpered did she refocus long enough to see Peeta, from District Nine, tackling one of the Robots. Both tumbled to the ground, and Prim saw Peeta's district partner lying in the dirt, eyes wide, protective suit covered in blood, but still breathing.

"Rosemary, run!" Peeta shouted, holding the female Robot in a headlock.

"I can't!" the blonde girl screamed, clutching her ankle. "My leg—I twisted something!"

The Robot flung Peeta off, bringing an electrified blade across his face. Drops of blood splattered across the grass as Peeta fell, and Prim flinched. Somehow, remembering Peeta's name had made him someone important to her, someone she'd specifically been rooting for. To see him fall . . . It was like getting kicked in the throat.

The girl named Rosemary screamed as the Robot raised her glowing saber above her head and brought it down. Before she could strike, however, something amazing happened. Peeta kicked her in the knee, shattering the complex network of circuits and gears there. Oil flowed down the fractured steel, pushed out by the force of the impact, and the Robot crumpled where she'd stood. Peeta got up and, grabbed the cyborg by the chin and ear, and snapped her neck.

"Come on," Peeta said, crouching down and grabbing the blonde girl's hand. "I'll help you walk."

Prim could practically hear Katniss criticizing the gesture—Katniss had always complained about how none of the Earth Tributes ever knew how to survive or fight; she'd view Peeta's act as suicidal weakness. Yet Prim couldn't bring herself to feel the same scorn her sister would feel—couldn't bring herself to fault the boy for trying to save his district partner. It was noble, kind.

It was something that shouldn't have existed in the Intergalactic Games.

"Honey, look," her mother said, pointing toward the screen. Prim lifted her eyes, wondering how long she'd been distracted, then froze, her breath catching as she saw Katniss heading toward the Earth team's Sanctuary. Behind her, several Swamp People stalked the tiny group she'd assembled during the bloodbath. As Prim watched, the monsters darted forward, their webbed claws reaching for Katniss's back.

"_Katniss, look out_!" Prim screeched.


	19. Chapter 19 Peeta

_Author's Notes:_

_This chapter, and the next chapter, take place at the same time as Prim's chapter. Since there are many different viewpoint characters, they will notice different things and have unique thoughts. And since we couldn't possibly detail everything from the bloodbath in one chapter, we've spread it out over three. Thanks, as always, to the readers and reviewers. You guys rock._

* * *

PEETA

* * *

"What's that?" Peeta asked, staring at the tube in his stylist's hand.

"The oxygen levels in the arena are too low to support human life." Venn stuck the small silver tube into the survival suit's pocket and sealed it in. "Or there might be some kind of poison in the air. Either way, these filters will keep you alive, and the silver suits will keep your temperature stable. Oh, but the filters run on battery power, so you'll need to recharge them and fill your suits with breathable air in your Sanctuary."

_If we even make it that far, _Peeta thought. To get to your team's Sanctuary, you either had to cross the Cornucopia or loop around it. Either way, it was always bloody.

"What if the suits rip?" Rosemary asked, poking at the sleek material.

Venn glanced up, gave her a hard look, and went about fastening her air filter to her suit. "Then you die."

_Then you die, _Peeta thought, stomach churning.

"Put these on." Venn handed them each a transparent mask. Peeta took his and placed it over his face. As soon as he did, two strings shot out of his suit's collar and anchored themselves in the base of the mask. He inhaled sharply, and the thin layer of plastic between his face and the air beyond it disappeared.

"And what's this for?" Rosemary demanded, poking her nose. "This mask doesn't even create a barrier. How is it supposed to—"

"Listen," Venn said sharply. "It's Robot technology, and it functions perfectly. There's a force field built to keep oxygen inside, but the Gamemakers don't want to give anyone extra protection, so there's no physical barrier to stop the aliens. Be grateful you have this much."

Rosemary's jaw shifted back and forth, muscles flexing and extending as she gnashed her teeth. When Venn turned away to dispose of the plastic bags their supplies had come in, she turned to glare at Peeta, as if it was his fault she'd been Reaped.

_And maybe it is, a little, _he thought, mind flashing back to the bakery, to the rows of wedding cakes and cupcakes in the window. _Maybe we should've donated some of our food to the grain farms. Maybe then Rosemary wouldn't have had to take out tesserae and wouldn't have gotten Reaped. _He frowned, knowing his mother would've never allowed it. Their bakery made enough profit to keep them in business, but they were still eating stale bread, and twice, when grain prices had gone up, he'd had to take tesserae. They couldn't afford to give out food. Besides, _someone _would've gotten Reaped, maybe someone he'd known.

He still felt guilty as hell that he hadn't even _tried _to save anyone.

"All right, you two." Venn pushed them toward the door, and they stepped into a room with a dozen cylindrical pods. "Find a teleporter. Make sure you and your survival suits are the only things in it. I don't want a repeat of last year."

"What happened last year?"

"One of our tributes tried to hoard food in his teleporter," Rosemary said. "He knew he wouldn't find much in the arena. He would've starved." Her eyes flickered to his face in accusation.

"Oh." He didn't remember watching that, so perhaps it had been part of the bonus material. There hadn't been much point in punishing the boy anyway, since they were essentially being shipped off to die.

Rosemary shrugged, tilting her head back and strolling over to a teleporter. "Sometimes the only way to survive is to steal whatever you need. You'd understand that if you lived like the rest of us."

She flounced off, picking a teleporter on the far side of the room, near the Career tributes. Peeta sighed and started toward the nearest machine to wait for the others to choose their spots. Rue smiled at him from across the room and darted into the chamber at his right. As the last tributes filed into the room, he caught sight of Katniss. Her expression was troubled, her gray eyes tight. _But not with fear, _he thought, as she glanced toward her district partner. _Not for herself, anyway._

Gale nudged her arm and pointed toward one of the other teleporters, his eyebrows knitting together. Katniss shook her head and waved him off. Looking like a beaten dog, Gale slunk off into one of the teleporters on the opposite side of the room while Katniss hurried in the other direction.

She must've felt Peeta's gaze, because a moment later, she glanced up, hands curling into fists. Peeta smiled, wishing he could talk to her, wishing that they weren't being sent to their deaths, wishing this was a better world, where they might have a chance to know each other.

Katniss started to smile, then flinched, catching herself. Scowling, she stalked over to the teleporter two pods down from his.

Peeta sighed. _I guess I'm only charming in front of the cameras. _

Several minutes passed, and all nonessential personnel vanished from the room. He waited, watching the technical crew manage the control panels. They conversed with each other, their voices inaudible beyond the bulletproof glass.

The lights inside his teleporter came on, first glowing pale yellow, then brightening to an almost blinding white. He closed his eyes, barely cognizant of the dark glass wall rising in front of him, trapping him inside. Light filtered through his eyelids, so bright it made every capillary visible.

He wondered if anyone had ever gone blind in these teleporters.

Air rushed over his suit, making it cling to his skin. A bead of sweat formed on the back of his neck.

There was a _pop, _like the sound cans made when they were opened. The glaring light vanished, replaced by a gentle, relaxing dimness, and he felt something soft under his feet.

"Sixty seconds!" someone shouted. Peeta opened his eyes, trying to overcome the dizziness pounding in his temples. As his eyes adjusted, the arena came into view. A massive circle of silver grass spread out around him, swaying in the wind. He blinked, mesmerized by the rippling sea of silver; he'd seen such plants several times in the games, though this was the first time it had been featured in the Cornucopia. Since he'd never seen any species make use of this grass, he could only assume it was intended to level the playing field for these first bloody moments. A futile gesture of equality.

"What are you going to do?"

Peeta turned to see Crya, from District Eight. Her eyes were wide, her face pallid. Probably overcoming the same disorientation ripping through his body right now. Peeta stared at her. "What?"

"What are you going to _do_?" she demanded. "Are we going straight in or going around?"

_She wants _me _to decide that for her? _His eyelids fluttered, shock making him slow, stupid. "Um . . . Just do whatever's best for the team."

"Peeta, that doesn't tell me anything!"

"Then—I don't know. Go around. Try to pick up whatever you can."

Her pupils dilated, and she turned away, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "We're going to die, aren't we?"

Pity washed through him, but even as she walked away, a clamor from behind drew his attention.

"We have to get _something_," Hale said, throwing his hands into the air. "This is an alien planet. There might not be _any _other supply source."

"Be reasonable," Blight said, stepping back and raising both hands in a calming gesture. "Every alien out there is stronger than us, and they all know it. We don't stand a chance."

"Well, I'm going," said Hale's district partner, Anemone. She tilted her chin toward the mounds of supplies near the center of the Cornucopia.

"You should come, too," Hale said. "We need every man we can get."

"You're crazy!" Blight snarled.

"I'm just trying to survive! That's all I'm doing! What's so hard to understand about starvation, or dehydration, or _exposure_? You think these stupid suits are going to protect us from the Swamp People, or the Red Men?"

Without a conscious thought, Peeta rushed over to the fray. "Do whatever you think is best for the _team_!" he shouted. "None of us are going to survive if you pick fights with each other!"

The trio stared at him with mixed expressions of anger and shock. Anemone looked away first, her straight brown hair falling over her face like a curtain. "Hale and I will go into the Cornucopia. You do whatever you want."

The District Six tributes stalked over to the edge of the force field, waiting for the gong to ring. Peeta looked up to see the time flashing in the sky above the arena. Already, nearly half their precious minute had slipped away. He froze, heart pounding, and his eyes fell upon Katniss and Gale as they shouted at each other. The blood pounding in his ears muffled their words, and he had a dim thought about how useless he'd be if he couldn't pull himself together. Earth _did _stand a chance; he had to remember that, had to hold on long enough to make it to the end.

Had to believe everything would be all right.

"Thirty seconds!" shouted Darrin, from District Five. Peeta looked up, numb, as Darrin called everyone participating in the bloodbath to the edge of the force field. After a moment, he started in that direction, lungs seizing up. A pair of pale blue eyes flashed up to his, though it took him a moment to register them as Rosemary's. Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes were dull, hollow-looking, as if she was still in District Nine, slowly starving to death amongst rows of Capitol-bound grain.

"Sorry," he whispered, as he reached the edge of the force field. Most of the Career pack had lined up at the front, ready to spring, but Finnick, Glimmer, and Katniss were noticeably absent. Strange. _Are they going around? _he wondered, glancing at the clusters of tributes. Thresh and Johanna stood off to the side, away from the Career pack. Peeta wasn't sure whether they'd isolated supplies they thought they needed, or if they were going to head straight to the Sanctuary. Johanna, tiny as she was, probably didn't stand much chance against the swarms of aliens they were about to face.

A deep crash echoed through the arena, humming in his bones. Time slowed to a crawl, the translucent force field vanishing. The Career pack lurched forward, legs pounding against the silver grass, ripping it out by the roots. Peeta stared, the gong still ringing in his ears. _Move, _he thought, frozen. _I have to move. _

Yet his legs wouldn't budge. His muscles to jelly, quivering under his weight, and it felt as if someone had draped a heavy sleeping bag over him, making him sluggish.

"Move!" Katniss shouted. He turned. She was looking over her shoulder, eyes fixed on his frozen figure, and her expression was somewhere between annoyance and horror. "Run! Do something!"

The words shattered the spell. He lunged forward, legs propelling him toward the mass of supplies in the middle of the Cornucopia. In seconds, his legs found a rhythm, and he picked up speed, gaining on the Career pack as they charged in. He saw Clove stoop down and pluck a knife from the grass. A second later, she flung it toward a blue-skinned Swamp Man. It slashed across the creature's throat, spraying brown blood over the pristine grass.

Peeta kept running, pausing only to grab a head-sized loaf of bread from the ground. As he knelt, a flash of orange caught his eye. He looked up, instinctively crouching lower, as the glowing sphere streaked through the air and caught Hale right in the face. The molten metal splashed his head like water, melting the skin and flesh off and charring the bone underneath. Peeta's perception narrowed to that spot, all other threats vanishing from his mind as Hale's corpse hit the ground like a sack of grain.

"Hale!" Peeta rushed toward him, some part of his mind hoping there was medicine to treat him, even as the logical part of his mind registered that it was pointless to go to him now. It was over.

"Leave him," Johanna said, coming up behind him.

Peeta didn't even turn. _At least it was a quick death_, he thought as he sprinted toward the middle of the Cornucopia. The most valuable supplies were always nestled right inside the golden horn, waiting for those few brave souls to rush in and get cornered, killed.

Peeta wondered if he was suicidal, or just hopelessly idealistic in believing he could get in and out without dying.

The sounds of battle echoed across the field: steel grating against steel, the thwack of something solid hitting flesh, the splatter of blood hitting _everything_. All the while, he kept running, only freezing when a bloodcurdling scream slammed into his eardrums. He whipped around in time to see Darrin collapse in front of a pack of Angels, blood pouring from his eyes. His screams grew louder, higher pitched, then stopped abruptly, like a radio being turned off. Dead.

_I have to keep moving. _His body rocketed forward, instinctively crouching to grab things he recognized—fruit, a knife, a fist-sized medical kit. He saw Gale fighting with one of the Red Men, over a bow. _Must be for Katniss, _he thought, passing a Swamp Woman as she raked her claws across a Neanderthal's face. Brown blood splattered against his silver suit.

Another scream pierced his eardrums, sharp and familiar. Rosemary. Automatically, his gait shifted, momentum breaking as he turned sharply toward the sound. His district partner was lying on her side, curled up as one of the Robots stood over her, a glowing blue saber in his hand. _She's going to kill Rosemary, _Peeta realized, lungs burning with exertion. He tackled the Robot, and they tumbled to the ground. The Robot rolled, rising to her feet. Grabbing onto her mechanical shoulder, he pulled himself up and wrapped his arm around her throat, squeezing her windpipe shut. "Rosemary, run!"

"I can't! My leg—I twisted something."

_Not good, _he thought, one arm still wrapped around the Robot's soft throat, the other clinging to the supplies he'd managed to grab. His whole body jerked as the Robot spun around, shaking him off. Pain lanced across his cheek as he fell, the glowing sword streaking across his face. The impact with the ground knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment, all he could do was stare above him, at the starry expanse above him.

It was strange how identical this night sky was to Earth's.

"No, no, no," Rosemary whimpered, a few feet away. Reality came rushing back; the Robot lifted her sword above her head, point down.

Peeta threw a kick toward the Robot's knee, praying it would be enough to stop her. The circuits surrounding the joint ripped apart, oil flowing down the steel like black blood. The Robot screamed, a high-pitched wail somewhere between a human voice and a mechanical whir. Her leg collapsed under her, sending metal bolts and circuits everywhere.

Without a thought—without even a _second _of hesitation—Peeta grabbed the Robot by her chin and ear and twisted. A deep, fleshy crack, accompanied by the sound of metal buckling under his fingertips, vibrated through the air as he snapped the alien's neck. _My first kill, _he thought numbly, unsure whether to feel pride or horror. As it was, he felt nauseous. "Come on," he said, reaching for Rosemary's hand. "I'll help you walk."

Shock flickered across the blonde's face. "Why?"

His hand folded around hers. "Because you're part of the team."


	20. Chapter 20 Clove

CLOVE

* * *

Clove knew she had to eat as much as possible – who knew when she would be able to eat again? - but the food was uncooperative, clogging her throat as she tried to swallow. Even Cato seemed subdued, although he had no issues working his way through his usual mountain of sugar.

"Let's go through it one last time," he said. "This is you." He set up a salt shaker. "This is me." He was the pepper. "The District Ones." Two egg cups. "Finnick." Finnick was the syrup. _How apt, _thought Clove. "So we're all positioned on the Launch Pad, and Caesar will start counting-"

"But you've missed Katniss, and Gale, Nuts and Volts, and Aoife. That isn't even all the Alliance."

Cato gave her an oppressive look and shrugged. "It's everyone who matters. Are you going to let me finish?"

Clove rolled her eyes. "I've had as much training for these games as you."

"I know, that's what worries me," Cato's lips tightened, then he continued recapping his plan. "By the time the gong sounds, we will all be gathered as close to the edge of the Launch Pad as we can. Don't fall off."

"I didn't plan to."

"Good. When we are released, we'll begin a pincer movement towards the Cornucopia." He began moving the condiments towards his stack of pancakes, which was no doubt supposed to represent the golden horn of the Cornucopia. His voice continued, but Clove had stopped listening. It was all pointless anyway: the moment the gong sounded, it would be every man for themselves, and hopefully they would be able to piece their fractured alliance back together once they reached the Sanctuary. Besides, Clove was perfectly happy to just watch Cato as his lips moved and brow furrowed in concentration.

His eyes lifted and met her own. "Did you hear a thing I just said?"

"Yes, the world's most violent egg cups have just attacked a particularly aggressive fruit salad."

"Clove, you have to concentrate, one moment of weakness and -"

"Neanderthal fodder, yes I know."

Cato sighed. "It would look better when I return to District Two if I had you with me. I'm the leader of this alliance, you're my responsibility."

"You're the leader?" Clove scoffed. "Last time I checked, Finnick was the star of this alliance. Heck, even Beetee would be a better leader than you. If we make it home, it'll be because we fought for it, not because you lead us there."

Cato pursed his lips, face reddening in either anger or humiliation. Luckily, this was the moment that their escort decided to make an appearance. "Now, now children, How about we save that energy for the arena?"

The argument ended, not because their anger had abated, but because it had a different focus. Their escort, oblivious to the animosity directed towards her, began chaperoning them out of their apartment in the Training Center, and toward the teleport room.

* * *

Clove regained awareness in the arena. Hysterical screams and desperate squabbling filled her ears, the voices belonging to the rest of her team. For a moment, she felt like joining them, until she took a deep breath and refocused.

_This is what you've been training for,_ she reminded herself. She forced herself to think back to the lessons her tutor had told her. _Know your surroundings_. She looked around for the first time, ignoring the countdown as best as she could, even though each second filled her with a stronger sense of a feeling foreign to her:_ true fear._

The Cornucopia was what she craved to see, but she forced herself to survey this last. Instead she carefully assessed everything she could see of the arena, always looking for an escape route. The arena was clearly split into six different sections. Straight ahead, the silvery grass merged into forest for as far as she could see. A vast ice wasteland lay to her right, between an endless red desert and a jungle filled with plants more colorful than any on Earth. A memory of Caesar's voice flickered through her mind. "_There's no place like home._"

_They're each a replica of our homeland. The forest must be Earth. _She resolved to head that way after she explored the Cornucopia.

She smiled, pleased with her conclusion,then remembered where she was, and how crazy she must seem to the cameras. _Time for one more moment of insanity_, she decided.

Wiress and Beetee had blindly followed Cato's instructions, and were hunched near to the edge of their team's arrival point, tremblingly silently - a far cry from the pandemonium near the edges.

Clove spoke urgently, aware of the ever-ticking clock. "I have the skills to survive in this Cornucopia, and Finnick believes you two might hold the key to surviving the entire games- but you're going to need supplies and the best ones will be nearest the Cornucopia. I'd get them myself, but I don't know what I'm looking for. I'll protect both of you, I promise, but you need to come in with me."

They nodded. Clove tried to find Cato, to tell him of her discoveries of the arena, but he was deep into a heated discussion with Finnick.

"What do you mean you're not going in?" Cato demanded.

Finnick opened his mouth, as if to reply, but caught sight of Wiress and Beetee huddled near the forcefield. He shouted, "Remember Wiress and Beetee, no heroics!"

The Districts Threes looked at him with confusion, but the wink Finnick aimed at Clove suggested it was more for her than them. All an act, she knew. Cato had to appear furious that Finnick wasn't heading straight into the Cornucopia, but in reality, they'd agreed that Finnick would do more good alive and getting sponsors than he would gathering a few things inside the Cornucopia. Despite everything, Clove managed a smile. "Look after them for me," he said quietly.

Cato mouth hung open in feigned shock and anger, but before he could resume his tirade, the District Five boy shouted "Whoever's going should get close to the force field." Finnick disappeared in the throng as Clove and Cato fought their way back to the edge of the Launch Pad.

The countdown reached the single figures.

"Good Luck," Clove whispered.

"You too," said Cato, and Clove could have sworn that his voice shook.

Then the gong sounded, and any thoughts of Cato vanished from her head.

The District Threes were, fortunately, as obedient as ever, not being stunned into inaction as Clove has previously feared, but following her into the crowded death trap. Cato led the way, aiming straight towards the Cornucopia._ He's braver than I am_, thought Clove, planning to skirt the edges of the Cornucopia for supplies. _O__r stupider._

Wiress let out a yelp, and Clove froze, terrified she had already lost one of her wards. "Communication devices! The weapon!"

Clove was about to give up on her self-imposed mission, until Beetee, the less vague of the two, let out a similar gasp. "She's right! Head over there!"

Clove was just about to point out that "over there" was horrifically close to the Cornucopia, but a flash of silver lying in the grass caught her attention. She swooped down, and drew three throwing knifes out of the high grass – perhaps not the most impressive looking weapon, but formidable in the right hands. Her hands.

"Clove!" came a squeal from behind her, and she spun to see a Swamp Man dangerously close to Wiress. He had scaled blue skin and his disgusting webbed feet made his walk almost ungainly. She hit him with her first knife, and he collapsed moments away from Wiress, spewing ugly brown blood onto the ground.

It was almost too easy. Adrenaline surged through her body. She could get herself out alive, take the communication devices with her. "The Cornucopia it is, then," she muttered, gathering her two dependants and finding the knife, wiping the brown blood onto the grass.

Cato had gained more of a lead on them, having yet to run into trouble. Clove sprinted as fast the District Three's could follow. Cato was doing well, but had yet to make a kill. But Clove had, and she could do it again, as many times as she had to.

In front of her, Cato dove to the ground. She thought that he had tripped, until she saw the fireball hurtling towards them.

"Get down!" she screeched, grabbing Wiress and Beetee and pulling them down to the floor with her. It flew over their backs, the heat even from this distance excruciating. A cry confirmed it had hit someone, but Clove ran forward without looking back, urging Wiress and Beetee to do the same. Any Earth casualty was a loss.

Cato had emerged from his crouch with a weapon, a spear, and Clove could see he was looking for a fight. The fireball had made her more cautious, and she knew that if she stayed in his wake, she might be able to follow his trail to the Cornucopia without too much trouble. The District Threes had started lagging behind, but Clove forced them on.

Cato had found his first victim, a huge Neanderthal who could have crushed his skull in an instant, had it not been for the spear now piercing his abdomen. Clove managed to catch up with him, and paused to grab a rucksack from the grass, with something rattling inside. The District Threes had been gathering various items as they ran, various bits of wire and batteries, so she threw the rucksack at them, and they pushed their treasures inside.

Cato gave her a quizzical look, questioning why she had brought Nuts and Bolts into the fray, but Clove shook her head. There was not time to explain, and they would never be able to hear each other over their shrieking competitors.

Cato continued toward the Cornucopia, but there was no easy way through. They'd have to fight. He speared a Red Man, who was grappling with some Swamp Person over bars of food. The Swamp Person heard the cries of the dying man on the floor, and hesitated before attacking Cato. The moment of hesitation gave Clove enough time to land a knife between his eyes. Cato collected the food, and Clove retrieved her knife. They made a good team.

A strange silence fell over the fighting, like an collective intake of breath had stolen all the oxygen from the arena. Robots and Swamp People alike stopped fighting to make way for a new terror, the Angels, their soft shrouds flowing over the bodies that already littered the ground.

All of Clove's training told her to remain still, and wait with bated breath until they passed over her. She even took herself by surprise when she found herself whispering to Wiress and Beetee, "They wont kill everyone. They love the game too much to have it end so quickly. Follow me."

Cato shook his head, asking her to stay, but Clove didn't react. This would be her best chance.

Wiress and Beetee, with their small frames, were surprisingly agile, and the three competitors ducked and dived between their opponents. Clove had been right, the other races all knew that Clove's death screams would attract the Angels. Although some of their enemies automatically twitched towards their weapons, they obviously didn't believe that killing three small Earth humans would be worth attracting the Angels' attention.

The Angels had clearly chosen their victim, if the blood-curdling screams were anything to go by. Clove judged she had thirty seconds, whilst the Angels fed off the anguish of the dying. Then the fighting would resume.

This area of the Cornucopia, just outside of the main horn, was tech galore. Wiress and Beetee seemed overwhelmed by the sheer multitude of equipment at their disposal, but Clove reigned them in, knowing that even though they appeared to be progressing under the radar at the moment, it would only take one mistake to bring an entire tribe down on them. She focused on what they had come for, a communication device, and ignored the Robots around her, who were beginning to move again, now that the Angels were occupied.

Luckily, the communication device seemed to be a lot less desirable than the advanced weaponry surrounding it. Wiress and Beetee carefully packed it into the bag, whilst Clove looked for other supplies, anxious at their proximity to so many rivals. Perhaps it was their seeming helplessness. The other species expected them to die in the first couple of days, and that expectation kept them from being targets. They certainly weren't ignored because they looked intimidating.

Clove found a couple of sunglasses on the ground, and added them to her takings. Past games had always included some form of enhancing eye wear so that the Robots, who were often upgraded to have night vision or heat detection, did not have an advantage.

"We need to go, now," she muttered to the District Threes, who were still pilfering supplies.

Perhaps one of the Robots were equipped with super sensitive hearing, as it choose this moment to advance on the District Threes.

"Run!" shouted Clove, and she launched a knife at the Robot. It was a female who appeared to have found an attachment for its arm in the shape of a double-sided axe. Clove couldn't see any leg enhancements- their only chance would be to outrun it.

They stumbled through crowds of duelling competitors, Clove getting hit on several occasions, each time the wind flying out of her and making her consider stopping, but she looked back the Robot was still there, a little closer. Blindly, she shot a knife behind her, not waiting for long enough to see if it had met its target.

The further from the Cornucopia they travelled, the sparser the crowds became. There came a point where Clove could see no one until the silvery grass became tinged with the red dust of what must be the Red Men sector. She risked turning around, praying that the Robot had given up.

The Robot was still encroaching on them, moments from being able to destroy them all with her axe-wielding arm. Clove had one knife left, and she knew she had to make it count. The Robot obviously had some form of modified skin, she had been sure her first knife had been on target, but there was no mark. Clove scanned the Robot for any signs of weakness, as she had been taught. _Always aim for the joints,_ she remembered.

Her knife flew true, and hit in the joint between the Robot's arm and her axe. The joint shattered, and the axe fell to the ground. Clove reached into her back pocket, pretending to withdraw another knife.

The Robot fled, taking Clove's last knife, embedded in its mechanical arm. Clove retrieved the ax, thinking that although it was far too cumbersome for herself, Cato might like it. There was no question about re-entering the battle at the Cornucopia. They would never survive it twice. Instead, she set off into the Red Man desert, flanked by Nuts and Volts, virtually weaponless and with limited supplies.


	21. Chapter 21 Katniss

Katniss

Slipping between the trees, the grey grass and carnage of the Cornucopia far behind her, Katniss relaxed. She'd have been more comfortable alone, but her high training score had apparently singled her out as someone for the Earth team to follow to the Sanctuary. Still, there was something to be said for safety in numbers, and as long as everyone kept moving, she didn't mind having them tag along. It might even be helpful having people to spread out and find the Sanctuary.

And at least she wouldn't be alone, now that Gale was dead.

Katniss pushed that thought to the back of her mind. She had no proof that he had died, only the knowledge that he'd run into a place where few Earth humans had ever dared to venture, and even fewer had made it out alive. Common sense crushed every glimmer of hope she felt. _Gale's fast. _But so were the Robots, with their modified legs. _Gale's strong._ But a Neanderthal was twice the size. _Gale's smart. _But he ran into a death trap to find a way to protect her. Still, if she gave into mourning now, his sacrifice would be for nothing. As long as she kept walking, she might survive to grieve for him later tonight, when the other tributes went to bed.

She turned around and addressed the group, "I'm going to climb a tree. I might be able to see something."

The majority of her team nodded numbly, apart from the little dark-skinned girl, who stepped forwards. "Let me," she said.

Katniss opened her mouth to object, to tell the tiny girl that she'd already had enough people sacrifice themselves for her today, but Rue sprang up into the branches of the nearest tree, and bounced up like she had lived in the branches all of her life. Katniss's lips morphed into a smile.

"The world really is full of surprises," said Finnick, in his familiar lilt. "I'm not sure if I'm more surprised that a twelve year-old has better survival skills than the rest of us, or that Katniss Everdeen can smile."

"Effie made me practice," Katniss said.

Finnick laughed. Keeping his voice low, he whispered, "Carry on smiling. I don't want to alarm everyone, but years of living with the constant presence of stalkers has meant that I'm pretty aware of when I'm being followed."

Katniss' smile hardened, and she had to concentrate to maintain it. "Have you seen anything?"

"No, but there's a group of them, and they're clumsy and loud."

"Swamp people?"

"I'd put money on it."

If she'd been in District Twelve, she'd have climbed the nearest tree, waited with one arrow already knocked, then taken them out one by one. But this wasn't District Twelve, and she didn't have a bow. "Let's be careful to stay away from water."

Finnick nodded, but his tight expression suggested that he had expected more from Katniss. "While Rue's in the tree, why don't we make an inventory of what we picked up from the Cornucopia. Maybe we could use something to defend ourselves."

Katniss spoke loudly, drawing the group's attention. "All right everyone, let's see what weapons we got from the Cornucopia." She had always been terrible at acting, and her tone elicited a couple of strange looks from her group. She blushed, feeling like an idiot. Whoever had been following them had probably been doing so since the moment the gong sounded. They would know that their group had avoided the Cornucopia, picking up only the meager supplies placed on the edge of the Cornucopia.

A tally revealed items which were largely expected. They'd managed to recover almost enough food and water to last their group the rest of the day. Katniss did a quick calculation to measure how long it would last if they lost a few of their party, as was surely about to happen as soon as whatever was following them made its move. The results were promising, but she kept them to herself, knowing that the last thing the group needed to hear was how beneficial their deaths would be.

In terms of weapons, they'd been less fortunate. Katniss had picked up a knife, which she kept to herself. It was far from ideal, more suited to butchering an animal than attacking, but far better than nothing, which was what the majority of the group had. Finnick had picked up a wooden spear similar to those made on the Neanderthals's planet. Crude, but efficient.

In this tiny clearing in the woods, the sounds of horror only a mile away were lost in the breeze: a breeze that rustled the leaves that adorned the trees in reds and gold, an exact replica of autumn on Earth, a breeze which would kill you the moment you lifted your visor.

"Katniss, look out!" Her mind a hundred light-years away, the voice registered as Prim's. Katniss shook her head, willing herself back into reality. Not Prim. Rue. "Swamp people! They followed us!"

She heard Finnick groan. "So much for keeping it quiet." Then pandemonium broke loose around her. The idea of distributing their few weapons to those who could weild them had seemed the obvious choice to begin with, but now, with danger lurking in the bushes, it was every man for himself – and every man, regardless of ability, wanted a weapon. They had been sent to this planet to represent humans, but now, as they wrestled with one another for the chance of survival, their humanity escaped them.

"Well, good luck!" shouted Finnick, giving her a mock salute and then sprinting into the wilderness, bronze head weaving in and out of trees.

"Where are you going?" Katniss shouted, already losing sight of him. _Maybe I should follow him,_ she thought, looking at the chaos surrounding her. _W__hat is there to save here?_

The first flash of green scales between the trees, and Katniss knew she had lost her chance. The Swamp People had chosen their moment well, waiting until the defenses were down and then surrounding them. The only way out was to fight.

Katniss threw herself at the nearest Swamp person, hoping to knock it off its ungainly feet by force alone. A layer of slime oozed from the creature, covering Katniss in a substance she prayed would not be poisonous. The monster wobbled, lashing out wildly. A claw caught Katniss' silver suit and tore the forearm off.

Katniss stumbled back, and waited with bated breath. _So after all that, this is it, _she thought,_ all those years of pain, of near starvation, to die on a planet engineered for death, away from everyone I've ever loved._

A moment passed, and Katniss realized she couldn't feel anything: no corrosive burn, no bubbling skin - the air wasn't toxic. Even as the alien's fluid seeped into her suit, there was nothing except for the uncomfortable feeling of the gel coagulating on her skin.

She tightened her grip on the knife and brought it down onto the Swamp Person, piercing the dome of its bug-like eye until she was wrist deep in entrails. The slime made it hard to grip on the knife, but she held it steady, as the amphibian shuddered and then died, her hand still inside its eye.

She pulled her arm out, a thick globule of slime still linking her and the Swamp Person. Glancing around, Katniss realized the rest of the Earth team had either run or died. Two more Swamp People advanced on her, this time with weapons. She readied herself: two would be difficult, but not impossible.

"Up here!" Rue shouted from the tree behind her. The sound of the little girl's voice knocked Katniss out of her momentary blood-lust. Her hunter's instincts whirred into action. Would she have enough time to make it up the tree before the aliens descended on her?

She scrambled up the tree, the slime on her hand making it almost impossible to grip the branches. Just as she lifted her foot into the branches, a clawed hand scraped the bark below her heel. She kept climbing even as relief flooded through her. The Swamp People were not built to climb trees.

She made it to Rue, who was staring, transfixed, at the clearing. The group of Swamp People had encircled Blight, locking him in. They toyed with him, obviously hoping his cries for help would entice the two girls out of the tree. Katniss wasn't stupid; she knew climbing down would mean death for all three of them, but as Blight begged and pleaded, her survival instincts seemed more like cold-heartedness. Katniss covered Rue's eyes, and whispered into her ear that it would be alright, that they would make it to the Sanctuary, anything to cover Blight's whimpers.

And then Blight died. A noisy, undignified death on the forest floor, a patchwork of claw marks over his broken body. _That's what we'll all look like at the end,_ Katniss thought. Below, the Swamp People grew tetchy, needing water more urgently than the two girls needed to refill their oxygen tanks. One by one, they disappeared. Katniss waited in the tree for several minutes before descending.

The two girls wandered through the woods, frequently crossing the paths of what might've been other humans, or amphibians, or some other alien. They avoided them all, putting as much distance between themselves and the Cornucopia as possible.

"What you did with that Swamp Person," Rue began. "I've never seen anything like that before."

Katniss shrugged, trying to look less affected by the event than she actually felt. "It's almost like it isn't murder. They're so different to us, it's almost like just hunting a deer." Katniss stopped, knowing that there were cameras all around, that people would be wondering how she'd have ever killed a deer. Still, most of the action would still be at the Cornucopia. And she probably wouldn't survive long enough for it to matter anyway.

They emerged from the forest into what had seemed to be a clearing. But instead of featureless grass, a gaping wound split the hill, the dark recesses within beckoning them. A cave.

And outside sat Finnick, his visor up, sun shining off his bronze skin. It could only mean one thing.

Sanctuary.


	22. Chapter 22 Peeta

PEETA

"I don't get you, bread boy."

Peeta blinked, tilting his head back. "Huh?"

Rosemary sighed, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Why'd you save me back there?"

"I told you, we're on the same team." He stepped over a mossy root, not wanting to twist his ankle as Rosemary had twisted hers. At least, he thought she'd twisted it. Could've been a sprain, he supposed, but he didn't know the difference.

"You know, if this was the Hunger Games, you would've been better off leaving me to die."

"Well, it's not." His mind flashed to clips he'd seen of the traditional Hunger Games. The brutality, the transformation from child to murderer. Sure, one tribute always survived, but that success depended on the deaths of twenty-three others. _How could anyone live knowing they'd played a part in killing twenty-three __people__? _he wondered. _At least our enemies are mostly aliens. Even if we don't survive, at least we don't have to murder our own. __Except for the Red Men, and even that's not necessary._

He sighed, trudging through a patch of black dirt. The ground sunk under their combined weight, and a bead of sweat gathered at the nape of his neck. Working in a bakery, he'd carried bags of flour heavier than his district partner, but that didn't lighten the load on his back. Carrying a bag of flour was simple, but carrying another person as their arms wound around his chest . . . that was just awkward.

"The rest of the team will laugh at you for rescuing me," Rosemary said. "They'll say I'm dead weight. I can't fight aliens with a twisted ankle."

"The Games last more than three days. You'll get better." _Maybe our sponsors will send something. If we even _have_ sponsors. _His mind flashed to Katniss, as it had more frequently than he wanted to admit over the past few days. Between her outfit and her district partner, she'd been a hit during the pre-Games. Sponsors would mob her mentors for the opportunity to send her gifts. Same for Finnick and Glimmer, and the other Career tributes.

"You middle-class kids are so optimistic," Rosemary said, pulling him from his reverie. "Does having two meals a day make you happier people, or do you just forget that the rest of us are dying a little more every hour?"

His voice sharpened. "This really isn't the place to guilt trip me about how I grew up."

"I'm just saying, you've probably never known what _real _hunger feels like. If it came right down to it, you'd break before I would. Good nutrition makes you soft."

"Are you forgetting we're on the same team?" _Keep your temper, _he told himself. _You can't forget, either. Even if she hates you, she's still from District Nine. You have to take care of her. _

"No, I'm just saying that there was no point in you rescuing me. It's not like I'm going to make it to the end anyway."

"So what? You're just going to lie back and die here?"

"I don't see what else I can do with a twisted—Peeta."

He paused mid-stride, foot coming down awkwardly on the grass. Whenever Rosemary spoke to him, her words dripped scorn. Now, hearing her address him by name, a shiver of unease shot down his spine. His voice dropped low. "What?"

"Don't move. Look up _slowly_."

His eyes drifted upward, the muscles in his neck crying out as he craned his head back, inch by inch. Something rippled in the trees above, yellowed leaves scraping against their neighbors. Peeta's hands tightened into fists, the material of his suit crinkling around his fingers. Through the branches, he could see the straight outlines of a metal arm, like a piece of piping left exposed. "Robot," he whispered.

"What do we do?"

_Run, _his logical mind screamed. Instead, he pulled his knife from his belt. "Climb off my back. Crawl under the leaves. I'll find you."

Rosemary obeyed, arms sliding off his shoulders as she sunk to the ground. Peeta's gaze remained fixed on the branches above him. Robots could stay still for hours, only moving at the explicit command of their biological brain. They didn't need to stretch or change positions. They rarely needed sustenance or sleep. No, Robots were adept at waiting. Waiting and watching.

_This is definitely Earth's territory, _Peeta thought, remembering the clock-shaped divisions he'd seen from the Cornucopia. All the planets' major terrains had been featured—a vast, rocky landscape dusted with maroon for the Red Men, a field of snow with crystals jutting out of the ground for the Angels, and other terrains, like those of the Swamp People and Neanderthals. _If I'm walking into an ambush, that must mean I'm close to our Sanctuary. If I die, Rosemary might even be able to get there on her own._

He thought about that—dying for someone else. Not that he wanted to die, of course, but if he had to, at least it would be in the defense of another person. It would be an honorable death, a way to die with his humanity in tact, instead of broken by the stress of the Games or driven insane by Angel songs.

The Robot in the tree didn't move, but he swore he could see a blinking green light amidst the leaves. Alive. A few feet away, Rosemary burrowed under a carpet of leaves, shielding herself from the Robot's line of sight. Another thing he'd noticed about Robots through watching the games was their tendency to ignore everything except their current task. Like how the computers at school only allowed him to interact with one window at a time in order to keep processing at a decent speed. If he engaged the Robot in combat, it would likely ignore Rosemary's presence entirely. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Come on down," he called, hoping the Robot would understand the challenge in his tone, if not the words. The blinking light shifted, like an eye turning toward him. His grip around the knife tightened, heart pounding as adrenaline flooded his veins. _I can do this, _he reminded himself. _I killed a Robot in the Cornucopia, I can do it now. _

Splinters fell as the Robot's legs retracting from their anchor points. The creature landed, metal limbs absorbing the impact. This one had four barbed legs, each with numerous joints, like the legs of a spider. Peeta jumped back as one of the legs snaked out. A retractable blade whipped out of the end, slicing the air. Half a second of hesitation, and the metal blade would've decapitated him. Instead, Peeta landed in the dirt, flecks of soil scattering across his skin as he rolled away.

The Robot swung its whole body, standing on two legs as the other pair spun like the blades of a propeller. It shambled forward, metal flashing in the dim light.

Peeta ducked, somersaulted, and brought his knife around. The tip scraped across the juncture between the Robot's legs and its abdomen, where a human's hips would've attached to their torso. The scratch changed nothing, as the Robot reached down and picked him up with its mechanical pincer. He flailed, dangling by the arm, until his heel caught the creature's face. Irritated, the alien screeched and flung him against the nearest tree, hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. His face hit the dirt, and for a moment, all he could think was how lucky it had been soft soil below rather than something solid.

His relief faded as the Robot approached, a long, buzzing sword sliding out of the compartment in its arm. Peeta groaned. _Maybe the first time was luck, _he thought. _Maybe I don't stand a chance._

His gaze panned up to see the upper half of the alien. Lucas and Hazel had drilled him on the weaknesses of all the aliens, but with his head spinning, it was hard to call it back. But he remembered something . . . something about hitting the Robots where it hurt.

His mind spun, dots swarming in front of his eyes as he tried to think. Hit them where it hurt. Where could a Robot be hurt?

The creature paused a foot away, as if deciding which method of murder would be most effective. _I can't just lie here to die. None of the others would. Not even Rosemary, __even if__ she pretends to welcome death. _

A pincer pinched the tendons in his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, like hot needles being jabbed into his skin. He gasped, knuckles going white with the force of his grip. The knife did little to the steel shell of the Robot's armor, particularly since this one had outfitted itself with extra protection with supplies from the Cornucopia. But there was an exposed patch of flesh where the spider-like legs joined with the plated torso. An opening, if he could reach it.

Hit them where it hurt.

The Robot lifted him another inch. Peeta went limp, pretending to resign himself to his fate. His fingertips tingled. Another inch or so, that was all it would take. One glancing blow would throw the Robot off-balance, give him an advantage.

The creature's sword arm creaked as it rotated. Peeta flung his leg out, heel slamming into its abdomen. With a screech, the alien doubled over, dropping him. _Hit them where it hurt, _he thought. _Of course. Not the machinery, but whatever remains of their organic bodies. _

Breath speeding, Peeta jumped to his feet. His arm arced, muscles swinging with a fluidity he hadn't realized he'd possessed. The blade buried itself in the Robot's abdomen. Blood sprayed across his mask, through the force-field, and splattered his face. The Robot dropped, screeching until it died.

Its blood was cold, like the blood of a dead man.

"Rosemary?" he asked, when nothing else stirred after a moment. The leaves rustled behind him, and he turned to see her brushing red and yellow maple leaves off her suit. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she said. "Detach that sword from its arm. We can use it. Oh, and the knife in its leg. Actually, is there any way you can detach some of the other metal parts? If District Three makes it to the Sanctuary, they'll be able to use those."

He blinked at her. "That's surprisingly helpful, for you."

Rosemary scowled. "Well, the team shouldn't have to suffer because you don't know how to scavenge properly."

He rolled his eyes and started dismembering the mechanical limbs. The sword and knife pulled free with little effort, but when he tried to unscrew the legs, blood poured out of the joint, mixing with oil. He jumped back. "Ick."

His district partner snickered. "Come on, bread boy. Pretend it's cake batter."

"That looks _nothing_ like cake batter."

"Don't be such a pansy."

Bile rose in his throat. He turned away from the corpse, trying to forget the feeling of ice-cold blood splattering against his face. If his hands hadn't been covered in the same, he'd have wiped his cheeks. As it was, he wouldn't be able to clean up until he found a water source, or a cloth, or the Sanctuary. And he had no way of knowing how far the Earth Team's Sanctuary was from here. _There would have to be enough air in our oxygen tanks to sustain us until we got there, _he thought. _But maybe not if I keep exerting myself like this. _He glanced at the oxygen meter, disconcerted. The needle had drifted closer to the orange.

"I'm running low on air," he said. "We'll take the weapons and head straight to the Sanctuary. We're probably getting close." _Hopefully._

"Yeah, whatever. Now come on over here so I can climb on your back. Unless you were planning on leaving me behind."

"I wasn't," he said, hanging the Robot's weapons from the backpack he'd procured before he'd left the Cornucopia. He crouched down in the leaves and let his district partner sling her arms around his neck, then started moving again.

The distance didn't really matter. With Rosemary on his back, it was going to be a long walk.


	23. Chapter 23 Rue

RUE

Rue perched herself on one of the highest branches, watching as another group of tributes limped toward the cave.

"Welcome back, Cato," Finnick said, grinning as half the Career pack emerged from the trees. Rue had seen them coming nearly ten minutes ago from her perch. Despite the undergrowth, there were definable paths within their territory, routes between their Sanctuary, the Cornucopia, and perhaps some unexplored corners of the arena. Still, even with natural pathways, Rue didn't count anyone as a survivor until they reached the mouth of the cave.

The cave. A convenient place to shelter, but with only one way out, it would turn into a death trap the moment another team decided to invade. Rue preferred the deciduous trees surrounding their Sanctuary. Any creature could follow them along the ground, but only a few could reach her here. And she didn't intend to be caught off-guard when one of them showed up.

As Cato, Clove, Beetee, and Wiress walked into their cave, Rue counted the number of survivors on her fingers. This made seven: Cato's group, herself, Katniss, and Finnick. _Where's the rest of the Career __pack__? _she wondered. She'd seen Glimmer and Finnick run off together at the gong, but the blonde hadn't reappeared. _Dead? Or did she get separated from the rest of the pack?_

She shifted as Cato muttered something to Finnick. This high up, her ears couldn't pick up on the words, though Cato's tone was approving. Which seemed odd, considering he'd yelled at Finnick earlier, before the gong had gone off. Mad about Finnick's decision to loop around the Cornucopia and head straight to the Sanctuary, she'd figured. _What changed?_

Giving one last look around, she descended from the treetop, her feet finding the base of the branches, where they were most stable. When she tumbled out of the tree, Cato whipped around, raising the sword he'd found in the Cornucopia, then freezing when he saw her. "Where the hell did you come from?"

Rue pointed up to the highest boughs. "Lookout duty." She turned to Finnick and held out the head-sized backpack she'd picked up from the edge of the Cornucopia. "I found berries up in the trees. We can eat them."

"Don't berries traditionally grow on bushes?"

"Not this kind. We harvest these in District Eleven. They're genetically engineered to taste like sugar, but they're full of protein, like meat. Try one."

Finnick held out his hand so she could drop a berry in it, the corner of his lip twitching up as he popped it into his mouth. Rue handed another to Cato, then backed away, smiling as he accepted it. _M__ake yourself valuable, _she told herself. _It's the only way to creep into the final alliances. _

"Tart, but still sweet," Finnick said, swallowing. "No wonder the Capitol puts these in all their deserts."

Cato gaped at him. "How would you know?"

"Oh, Cato dear, weren't you paying any attention at all? They were sitting on top of that crème brulee you ate that second night in the Capitol."

"Don't call me 'dear'!" the District Two boy snapped.

Rue suppressed a smile. It seemed so strange that two people could argue over something so insignificant when they'd been sent here to kill aliens and face starvation. "I'm going to see if the others want any. Finnick—"

"I'll keep watch. Though that might be difficult, if my darling Cato keeps being so distracting."

"Quit with the damn nicknames. It's not funny."

Rue ducked into the cavern, her footsteps echoing off the walls. Inside, Katniss poked at a campfire, her gaze faraway. Rue hurried over. "I found some berries in the trees," she said, sitting down beside the District Twelve girl.

Without glancing at her, Katniss set her poking stick aside and rested her hands on her knees. "That's great. You should add that to the pile."

Rue hesitated, unsure whether Katniss was aware of the split in the group. Depending on who had survived the bloodbath, the alliances could shift, but the split would remain. The Career tributes and Peeta's group, each with their own additions. Katniss would likely stick with her district partner if he made it back before he ran out of oxygen, but if they stuck together, that would complicate the split, especially since they'd both selected separate alliances. Covering their bases, Rue figured. A smart move.

Rue scooted closer to Katniss, hoping to win her over. "Actually, I just wanted to see if you wanted some. There's plenty up in the highest branches, but not a lot of people can reach them." _Just me. Me and whoever else is small enough to get up that high. _

The offer seemed to startle Katniss out of her depression. She looked over, the firelight throwing the shadows under her eyes into relief. Exhaustion, grief, worry. All those were evident in her hollow eyes. But no tears, Rue noticed, and her pallor was even, not the splotchy pattern she would've expected of someone who'd been crying. She doubted the older girl had shed a single tear.

"For me?"

Rue nodded and held the bulging pocket open. The older girl selected several berries from the top and lifted them to her lips, eyebrows lifting as the taste registered with her. "You found these in a tree?"

A smile found her lips. "Yes. They're just like the ones we harvest from in District Eleven."

"Aren't you a little young to be working?"

Her eyes widened. "No. Some of the youngest kids are only seven or eight. They send us high into the trees because the branches won't bear an adult's weight." Her smile softened, the memory of long summer nights flooding back. "I'm the one who signals the end of a shift. I have this whistle, and the mockingjays repeat it over and over again at dusk. It's like listening to a bunch of flutes warm up." A comparison she'd only been able to make since being shipped to the Capitol—in District Eleven, musical instruments were as rare as rich families. Mostly, people just sang or whistled.

Several minutes passed as Katniss tended to the fire. After a few minutes, the older girl spoke. "You know, having a campfire would give us away in the traditional Hunger Games, but with shelter like this, you almost don't have to worry about being seen."

Rue nodded. "Most of the teams are probably gathering in their Sanctuaries. Some of them will probably hunt through the night, but I don't think we're really priority." _We're not dangerous enough for them to bother. Not yet. _

"Right. Which makes me think." Katniss slid back, moving her fire-stick across the cave floor. The burnt tip left crude black traces across the stone. "This cave's only got one way out. It would be dangerous to get trapped here if there was an attack. We'd be able to defend it, but if a whole team stormed this place, we'd be overrun."

"Better to hide in the trees and only come back here to recharge our oxygen filters," Rue said, nodding toward the charger at the back of the cave.

Katniss glanced at her, lips pulling up at the corners before her features went cold, controlled. Her fingertips brushed the side of her suit, as if searching for something. When she found nothing at her disposal, she sank back. "I'm used to having my bow with me when I'm in the woods."

"Is that how you scored a six during the private sessions?"

The older girl opened her mouth, then hesitated, as if sifting through the different ways to respond. "Sort of."

"I made a slingshot and broke some wineglasses." Her lips tilted up at the corners. "I still don't know how I got a three. It wasn't that impressive."

"Technique triumphs over brunt force any day," Katniss said. "And creating your own tools shows the Gamemakers how clever you are. Use that."

"I will." She stared into the flames, listened to the familiar crackle. During weddings or birthday celebrations, the people of District Eleven would often have a bonfire—kindling was one thing their district had in abundance. She remembered her brothers and sisters darting around the fire, in a sort of tribal dance, as makeshift choirs sang familiar tunes. She remembered Auntie Mae dressing up in fake pearls and cotton dresses as she weaved her way into the family. They were all a family in District Eleven, all one community faced up against starvation and poverty.

Her eyes started to sting. She looked away from the fire and banished those memories from her mind. She had to be tough, like Katniss. Crybabies didn't get sponsors.

"You know," Katniss said. "I wouldn't mind being in an alliance with you. I'd actually prefer it over the Career pack." Her eyes slid over to Cato and his charges as he organized piles of Cornucopia supplies along the wall. "So would Gale."

"But they're the safer bet. I understand."

"They know how to use weapons, and they'll have sponsors. We can use them. But I don't think any of them really understand what it takes to survive. Defending yourself is only part of it. But if you're starving, you can't even do that. You can gather berries." She nodded to Rue's backpack. "And if I can just get my hands on a bow, I'll be able to hunt. If we're smart, we could survive this."

"You think so?"

"Maybe. It depends how many more people come back. If enough of us survived the bloodbath, we have a solid team. The Career pack, Gale, you, me. Maybe some of the others, if they made it. The odds are better now than they have been in years."

_It doesn't change anything, _Rue thought. _Odds or no odds, the Angels could take out our whole team in minutes if they came here. And she's right, we can only defend this cave for so long. _

"Will you think about it?"

Rue looked up. "Hmm?"

"Aligning with Gale and me. Will you think about it?"

"Oh. Yes. I have to talk to Johanna and Thresh, if they get back. Oh, and maybe Peeta, too. Is that okay?"

"Sure."

"Okay." She stood and grabbed her backpack. No sense in leaving things lying around, where ownership could be questioned. Even though everyone was on the same team, it was hard to ignore the obvious fissures between the groups. _Not all of us will come out alive, even if we win. I have to keep my options open. _

She headed outside, donning her mask and replacing the now-charged oxygen filter. Her suit clung to her like a second skin, and she could feel the sweat from her trek here sliding between the material and her body. Soon, she'd remove the suit and clean up. But not until she had an accurate count of who'd made it back.

"Heading out?" Finnick asked.

"Yeah. I'm going to keep watch." _Make myself useful._

"Be careful."

She stared at him a moment, unsure how to respond. Finnick had always struck her as strange for a Career. Not as into the Games as the rest of them. Not out for glory. Kind even to District Three, though they were often abandoned in the bloodbath.

_Strange world,_ she thought, climbing her tree until she could see the Earth territory in its entirety. _In every sense. _

Several minutes passed before she saw movement near the camp. She looked closer, hiding behind the webs of branches so she could better ascertain whether the movement belonged to an ally or an enemy. When she saw Thresh and Johanna trudging toward the Sanctuary with their arms full of supplies, she relaxed. Her three-person alliance had weathered the bloodbath. "Two more coming this way. Friends, not enemies."

"Great," Finnick called in response. "We're ready for them."

As Thresh and Johanna neared the Sanctuary, Rue scanned their territory again. Farther back, she saw hints of movement, which she identified as the remainder of the Career pack. Surprisingly, the redhead from District Five slipped under her radar until she popped out of the undergrowth right after Thresh and Johanna. "Stealthy one, aren't you?" Finnick remarked. Siobhan just shrugged.

As darkness fell, Rue considered heading into the cave. At most, there would be two or three more trickling in. Much longer, and the charge on the oxygen filters would run out and any surviving tributes would suffocate.

As far as deaths went, that was pretty mild. She'd seen previous Intergalactic Games where whole groups had escaped the bloodbath only to get lost on their way to the Sanctuary and suffocate. And some Games, she thought, where tributes had deliberately avoided their Sanctuaries so they could die that peaceful death.

She was halfway down the tree when she caught sight of Peeta through the branches. Her vision sliced through the darkness, accustomed to the early mornings and late evenings of harvesting season, and zeroed in on him. His pace seemed slow—injured or running low on oxygen—and he swayed with each step. Only when he got closer did she see the blond girl slung over his shoulders like a backpack. "Finnick, we've got two more," she said, descending. The District Four man glanced at her, then toward the woods.

"Looks like it's time to see if my efforts have paid off," he said, walking into the cave. Rue watched him go, wondering what he was planning. Since she was the only one left outside though, she felt compelled to wait until she could hear Peeta tromping through the undergrowth. Once he got close, she darted over to him.

"Katniss wants me in her alliance," she said. "But I wanted to ask you if that was okay."

He looked at her, his blue eyes bloodshot, weary. After a moment, he lowered his head. "Sure. You'll be better off with her." A dark chuckle escaped his lips. "Hardly anyone in my alliance made it out of the bloodbath anyway."

Her heart swelled with pity; she put it away, saving it for later. If there was going to be a later.

"Hey, bread boy," said the girl on his back. "Are we there yet? I'm running low on oxygen."

"Yeah, we're here. Just a few more steps."

Unsure how to help, Rue just followed Peeta as he carried his district partner into the cave. Finnick greeted them, his eyes grim even as he forced a smile. Once he ushered them inside, he turned back to her. "I think that's the last of them. Anyone still out there will be out of oxygen soon."

"Right." She started toward the cave, then stopped when a soft thumping in the distance drew her attention. She looked over her shoulder, ready to run, fight, whatever it took, until she recognized Gale from District Twelve, sprinting toward camp. In his arms, he held the District Eight girl, Crya. And she was bleeding. "Finnick, we've got one more. Or two."

"Hey!" Gale yelled, tromping into the clearing around the cave. "Hey, everyone, this girl needs help! She got attacked on the way in, and she needs medicine _now_."


	24. Chapter 24 Clove

CLOVE

* * *

It didn't take much to irritate Clove, and her companions weren't helping matters. As they checked and tallied their supplies from the Cornucopia, making optimistic statements, congratulating each other on how many people had made it to the Sanctuary, Clove seethed.

And if she was in a bad mood beforehand, the sight of the two lower District boys carrying injured women almost sent her over the edge. She would've laughed, if she hadn't been so furious.

There was a reason why some people had to die at the Cornucopia - supplies only stretched so far. It was times like this, in her darkest of moods, that Clove longed for the old Hunger Games. Then she could have killed all of them.

"There isn't enough," she shouted across the Sanctuary. Twice, to make sure that everyone who wasn't outside on watch heard. "I don't see why you're all looking so shocked. It's so obvious even a Neanderthal could work it out. We have enough food and water to last half of us for half the time we need it to. Either you're all purposefully skirting around the issue, or you're as stupid as you look. Let's talk about it – let's discuss how the only way we'll get through the next few days is if Finnick takes his shirt off or if the District Twelves stare dreamily into each other's eyes. And when that's not enough anymore, we'll watch each other starve."

"Clove, be quiet," Marvel said sternly.

But Clove stormed on. " And now we have two useless girls dying in the corner, not even worth the oxygen that they're breathing. Anyone serious about surviving would-"

"Would what?" Cato interjected. "Kill them? Stop feeding them? Who's going to want to have that on their conscience? If you're volunteering, by all means, go ahead."

"No." Peeta's usual gentle demeanour had vanished, replaced with something cold and unyielding. "There are enough things trying to kill us. We're not going to start killing each other."

"Then we all die," Clove declared, wishing she had a lower, more commanding voice, instead of her girlish, high-pitched tremor.

The cavern erupted with discussion, until Glimmer emerged from where she had sunk into the shadows. She'd spoken little since arriving at the Sanctuary, and only that much to explain why she'd taken so long. "I went the one way that nothing would follow me," she'd said, her tone almost empty, while maintaining its trademark allure. Clove remembered the way she'd seen Glimmer run: left, straight into the captivating field of white, a place only one race could survive.

"The Angels?" Clove had gasped, but Glimmer hadn't replied.

As Glimmer spoke now, Clove noticed that her voice still retained its haunted quality. "You're all wrong. I've seen more of this arena than any of you, and it's horrifying. You all think you're safe because you've only seen Earth. You think we stand a chance because we have normal trees and a big defensible cave. But you're wrong. You haven't had to keep running as the Angels dance around you in the fog. You haven't felt the soupy water of the swamps around your waist, having to step through bogs so murky you wouldn't know what was underneath until it had you by the ankle. The food won't make a difference once they come for us. It's the least of our worries."

"Then let's at least we die as ourselves," Peeta whispered into the ensuing silence, a consensus of nods following.

Clove bit her tongue. She wasn't defeated, but she knew that no one would agree with her tonight. _Wait until they're hungry_, she thought. _Then it'll be a different story._

She noticed Glimmer had retreated outside, and followed her, weaving around the pedestal as it hummed, ready to send sponsor gifts whenever their mentors approved them.

Glimmer had climbed halfway up the cliff face, and she was staring out across the tree tops. Clove relieved Rue of guard duty, and then joined Glimmer on the ledge.

"So there's really nothing we can do?" Clove said.

Glimmer shook her head. "I said it was going to be difficult. We're going to lose a lot of people and there's going to be some unpleasant discussions to make along the way, but it's not impossible."

Clove nodded. She'd never seen this side of Glimmer before. She knew it must have been there. Glimmer, no doubt, had all the training she'd had. It was impossible to have lived a life like theirs and not developed a dark side.

Perhaps it would be hard for a someone from District Eleven or Twelve to understand. Their fear of death was healthy one: the fear of the next harvest being a poor one, the failure to meet a coal quota and being unable to provide for your family. This was normal.

The Career districts weren't. Be it as tribute or a peacekeeper, to die representing Panem was the ultimate honour. In the lower Districts, you were not truly accepted into society until you had finished your last Reaping, until everyone knew that you would survive until famine or disease took you. In the Career districts, the opposite was true. Apart from the select few who had made it out of the Games alive, there was no way to hide your shame. If you had passed your last Reaping, and you were still alive, there was no way to escape your dishonor.

Clove realized that it wasn't only herself that bore this burden. The girl next to her must've felt it too. And yet, if anyone asked them what it was about Panem they were willing to die for, they wouldn't be able to tell. It was simply known that they must win, or, if they couldn't, die the sort of heroic death that would be remembered forever.

Clove knew why the other girl was frightened: from her story, it was clear the arena had terrified her. She'd let her mask slip, let the Capitol and the whole of Panem see how weak she was, how unprepared for death she actually felt. Now, unless she won or died the most magnificent death imaginable, her family would be shamed, and her name never mentioned again.

The night wore on, the single moon travelling across the star-filled sky – the same stars as home, but all in the wrong place. It was strange. Apart from her brief sprint through the Mars desert, impeded by nothing more than the red sand and the physical weakness of Wiress and Beetee, it was as if she'd never left Panem.

"It'll be okay." Glimmer smiled with an upbeat edge meant for the cameras.

Clove nodded and pursed her lips. "_We'll_ be okay," she replied.

She couldn't say the same for the injured girls in the cave.


	25. Chapter 25 Cato

CATO

"Clove, come on down," Cato called, just loud enough for his district partner to hear. The branches rustled as she shifted. "I'll take watch. You should rest."

Clove said nothing. After a moment, she leaned against the narrow spine of the tree trunk. "You're too heavy," she called. "The lookout tree would snap, and then we'd have no way of anticipating an attack."

Cato sighed. At fifteen, Clove was the lightest of the Career tributes, though her muscle mass meant she couldn't reach the top of the trees like the District Eleven girl. Still, he didn't like the idea that Clove intended to stay up there, sleep-deprived. That was asking for trouble. "I can keep watch from down here," he said.

"And when you get overrun by Neanderthals, I'll be sure to educate the rest of the team about the dangers of poor surveillance."

"You should come down. We've got sleeping bags." Not many, and the District Twelve lovebirds were sharing one for the camera, but they had enough.

"Things seem kind of heated down there," Clove said. "I'd rather stay out of the drama."

Irritation seethed in his chest. _You _started_ the drama, _he wanted to say. Not that he disagreed completely—they were going to starve if the District Eight girl kept using up their resources until she died of internal bleeding. Still, he'd figured Clove would've been smart enough to deal with her quietly instead of making it a group discussion. _Doesn't change anything now, _he reminded himself. _Girl's as good as dead anyway. _"Well, I'm taking a watch, so unless you prefer shivering in a tree all night, you should head in."

"You're so bossy." Clove slid through the branches, descending. Cato waited at the foot of the tree, waiting to take her place. As she dropped down onto the dirt, she spoke. "Things look pretty calm out there. Don't doze off."

His eyes narrowed. "I won't." He watched her walk back into the cave, hands balling into fists when he saw the contemptuous tilt of her head, as if she was one of those Capitol supermodels. He was just about to remark on her attitude when Finnick swept out of the cave, a bundle of blankets tucked under his arm. "And what are _you _doing out here?" Cato asked, irritation slipping into his voice.

"You mean you aren't happy to see me?" Finnick batted his eyes, flirting for the cameras. "Cato, your insensitivity _wounds _me."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. But seriously, what are you doing out here?"

A catlike grin crossed the man's face. "I came to see you."

"Why's that?"

Finnick lowered his voice. "To discuss where we stand regarding Clove's . . . proposition."

"Is that all?"

A smirk cross his face. "Well, I couldn't pass up an opportunity to see your pretty face, now could I?"

His nose twitched, and silence settled between them. When nearly a minute passed without a word, Cato let out a breath. "Is this going to be a thing with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"That weird, flirty . . . _thing_ that you do. Is that _you_, or . . ." He trailed off, glancing back to the woods, where he was certain cameras would be watching.

Finnick's smirk turned playful. "Maybe I just like you."

He grit his teeth. "Maybe you're an idiot."

"Oh, that stings. I just wanted to ask you what you thought about Clove's idea."

Cato looked away, suddenly wishing they could go back to their banter. "Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? We're short on food, and there's no way we're going to have enough for all the surviving players."

"Yes, I get the logic. But what do _you _think about it?"

He opened his mouth to claim he'd meant exactly what he'd said, then closed it again, the seriousness of Finnick's question prompting him to weigh his response. Again, his eyes flickered to the trees. Everyone in Panem could be watching this conversation within the hour. Every word either netted him more sponsors or made the people of Panem lose faith in him.

_They'll think Clove is callous for wanting to kill one of our own, _he thought. _But the medicine it'll take to heal that District Eight girl won't be worth the effort to get the sponsors. She'll probably bleed out within the next three or four days, so what does it matter? _

_ But if I stand by and let Clove kill her . . . What would the audience think of me? The smart ones will understand that we can't support an injured tribute, but killing her ourselves will look too cold-blooded. No, the Capitol would rather have us killing monsters. _

Finnick's perpetual smile had faded, replaced with a grim expression. "When Clove suggested it, you asked her who'd want to have that on their conscience."

Cato shrugged, hoping to sidestep Finnick's earlier question. "Yeah, so? Whether we need the food or not, we're still talking about murdering a member of our team. No one wants to do that."

"You don't think so?"

Something in the man's tone had his body tensing up. "I'm not sure what you mean."

A pair of glacier-green eyes settled on his face. "Look closely at the rest of our alliance," Finnick said, voice dropping to a murmur. "Look at Glimmer. Look at Clove. One wandered halfway across the arena, through swamps and Angel territory. She might be half-insane already, and we're only into the first night. And even though everybody could see that we didn't have enough supplies to last us through the game, it was Clove who suggested killing our injured teammate."

"She's just looking out for the team," Cato said. When Finnick opened his mouth again, he continued. "She's my district partner, Finnick. I'm going to take her side."

_That_ silenced the other man for a few seconds. His smooth, tanned face turned somber. "Loyal. That's commendable, but it's only twelve hours into the game. And if you think Clove is going to be loyal to _you_ just because you're her district partner, then perhaps I've overestimated your intelligence."

He bristled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm saying I would be a better ally for you, Cato. I'm not going to abandon you like I abandoned arrow-girl on my way to the Sanctuary."

Cato blinked, derailed. "You left District Twelve _behind_?"

Finnick shrugged. "We got ambushed. I consider my life valuable, so I ran. At least some of them survived. And even ignoring that, I'm a greater asset to the survivors than most of them. Sponsors, remember?"

"Yes, because our sponsors have been _showering _us with gifts."

"They will." Finnick leaned closer, so their faces were only a few inches apart. Stubbornly, Cato held his ground. "Tell me, Cato, who do you think is most likely to save _you _if circumstances require it? Clove is half your size, and not much of an asset at close-range fighting. Marvel and Glimmer will be looking out for each other. Same for Katniss and Gale, and one of them isn't even in our alliance."

"And couldn't the same be said for you and what's-her-name?"

"Aoife? You could say so. In fact, you'd probably be right. It's only courteous to protect your district partner as you would protect yourself, and I do try to be courteous." He leaned in, and Cato felt the heat radiating off the other man's skin. His heart started beating faster. _What the hell is he playing at? _he wondered as Finnick went on. "I protect what's valuable to me. And I consider you valuable, Cato, both as an ally and as a friend."

"As a friend," he repeated.

"Yes, Cato. Careers are allowed to have friends, too."

"I don't need friends. Just allies."

Finnick's eyes went cold. He slid back a step, and Cato let out a breath, relieved to have his bubble of personal space back. "You're wrong," Finnick said. "Even good allies will betray you if it's convenient, just as our team has betrayed itself over and over again since we arrived in the Capitol. But _friends_ come with emotional ties. They can still stab you in the back, of course, but they're less inclined to do so. And next time someone offers you friendship, _Cato_, I suggest you take them up on it."

He scowled. "I don't have to take orders from you."

Finnick turned away, walking toward the mouth of the cave. He paused outside, his voice rising just enough for Cato to notice the difference. "Of course not. You're so much more inclined to give orders than take them."

_Bastard, _he thought, watching Finnick go. It wasn't until he'd climbed halfway up the lookout tree that he realized he'd never answered Finnick's question.


	26. Chapter 26 Katniss

KATNISS

* * *

Dawn peered through the trees like a spotlight, shining right into their Sanctuary.

Katniss shifted in her sleeping bag, eyelids sliding open as she looked toward the entrance. The sun glowed an obscene shade of blue, tainted by the planet's outer atmosphere. Katniss wondered how that could be, when the area in and around the Earth team's Sanctuary tasted as fresh and crisp as the air outside the fences of District Twelve. _Maybe each section of the arena is sealed off somehow, _she thought. She'd overheard one of the Capitol people talking about the force-fields in their masks keeping poison air out without a physical barrier. Maybe that same system functioned at a larger scale in the arena. _The atmosphere will be different in each territory, _she thought, her grogginess slipping away as her mind started calculating again. _We'll need to have our masks if we plan on leaving our Sanctuary._

From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure shift in the shadows. Instantly, her senses focused on the disturbance. _Intruder, _her instincts warned. Then the figure stepped back into the slanted light, and she relaxed. _It's just Peeta, _she thought, head sinking into the sleek fabric of the sleeping bag. _What's he doing up at this hour? Guard duty?_

She frowned. Peeta had carried his district partner all the way from the Cornucopia to the Sanctuary. Katniss couldn't deny that he was a steadfast, reliable person. Still, a forest ringed their Sanctuary. Anyone lacking wilderness experience would have a hard time scanning for threats. _Didn't someone say he worked at a bakery? _she wondered. She'd never had much success in securing important bits of gossip in school—not that she'd bothered—but now she wondered if her lack of social skills had put her at a disadvantage. _I ought to know my team members' strengths better than this._

She considered slipping out of the sleeping bag and just asking him what he was good at, but hesitated. Beside her, Gale slept, features slack, with bruise-like shadows under his eyes. Limited sleeping supplies had forced the survivors to share, and since the Capitol had declared them lovers, Katniss hadn't been able to object to sharing a sleeping bag with him. Still, even with the awkwardness budding between them, she didn't want to disrupt his rest. Sleep deprivation dulled the mind, and if they were going to survive, everyone needed to be as sharp as an arrowhead.

_No_, she decided, returning her attention to Peeta. _Better to observe from afar. _She forced her body to relax and continued watching Peeta shuffle around in the dark. His district partner lay curled up against the wall, bandages wrapped around her ankle to keep it sturdy while it healed. Peeta glanced at the girl every so often, eyes clouded with worry, but the bulk of his attention focused on the injured District Eight girl. Dry blood marred her shredded suit, and every breath she took rattled, even the shallow gasps of her restless sleep. _She'll be dead by nightfall, _Katniss thought, watching as Peeta poured a bit of water from his canteen onto a cloth and laid it over the girl's forehead. _We can't do anything except make her comfortable, and she's of no use to us injured. _

She shook off the thought. Gale had carried the District Eight girl back after being ambushed near the Cornucopia. The Capitol would've celebrated his heroism. But as their food stores dwindled and their medicine vanished, Katniss began to wonder if Clove had been right. _If that girl died in her sleep, at least she wouldn't be suffering like this. _

In District Twelve, she'd seen hundreds of people—children, elders, parents, classmates—worn to the bone by starvation. The district officials had always ruled their deaths as illnesses or accidents, but everyone knew malnutrition led to poor health. _And with the Capitol being so generous with their tesserae, no one could actually starve to death, _she thought bitterly.

She and Gale had talked about it once. About whether they preferred a slow death by starvation or a bullet to the head. They'd decided the bullet would be faster, easier, but more final. A person could come back from starvation.

_But unless that girl's sponsors suddenly get generous, she'll suffer and die. Maybe one of us could ask her what she wants, if she wakes up. _

Peeta sighed, kneeling in front of the injured girls. His shoulders sagged. His head drooped. Even with the eerie blue sunlight, or perhaps because of it, his face looked sallow, the shadows around his eyes prominent.

With a sigh, Katniss slipped out of the sleeping bag she was sharing with Gale and walked over to Peeta. "You should sleep," she said, crouching next to him.

He shrugged. "I don't want to leave them like this."

"There's nothing you can do for them. Your district partner might heal, but . . ." _But the District Eight girl is a lost cause. _

He shook his head. "Maybe one of the sponsors will send medicine."

She sighed. "Peeta . . ."

"I won't leave them." He lowered his voice. "That girl from District Two was talking about killing Crya. She said it would be merciful, but . . ."

"She's right. It would be merciful. But that's not something we can do without her consent."

The shadows seemed to lift from his face. "So . . . We just ask her when she wakes up?"

Katniss nodded. "If she's lucid enough to understand the question, then she'll be lucid enough to know that she won't make it through these Games. She still might choose to hang on, but she'll be in so much pain, it would surprise me if she didn't agree."

Peeta's eyes widened. He glanced back at the District Eight girl—_Crya_, Katniss thought. _Her name is Crya—_then at the ground. "If she chooses that, someone's going to have to . . . you know." He made a quick slashing motion above his neck to show what he meant. "Who's going to do that?"

"Clove, probably." Her voice hardened. "She's the one who suggested it."

Peeta regarded her for several seconds. "You don't like her, do you?"

"I don't like any of the Careers." Out of all of them, Finnick had seemed the most humane, and even he had abandoned her at the first sign of an ambush. _At least he warned me, _she thought. _None__ of the rest of them would. __It's never about the team. It's about which parts of the team can survive the longest. _

"Some of them are okay," Peeta said, shrugging. "From what I've seen anyway. I guess you'd know more about that than I would, though."

"Not really. It's an alliance of convenience."

He perked up a little. "Oh. So is that why you and Gale each picked different alliances?"

"Yes," she said. "We're covering our bases."

Peeta nodded thoughtfully. "That's smart."

She shrugged, folding her legs underneath her body so she could sit cross-legged as she watched over the injured girls. When Peeta didn't move toward the cluster of sleeping bags, she looked at him. "You really ought to get some sleep."

His nose twitched. "What about Clove?"

Katniss's fingertips traced the knife she'd attached to her suit last night. "I won't let her do anything."

"It's not that. It's just . . . You're an asset to this team, even without a bow. All I can do is lift stuff and watch over the rest of the team. I'm like a mascot, or something."

She tried to resist the smile fighting its way to her face, but it won out, and the corners of her lips pulled up."A mascot, huh?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. I'm not good for much more than that."

She thought about the way he'd carried his district partner to the Sanctuary after she'd sprained her ankle. How he'd hovered over their injured teammates to protect them from their healthier teammates. _He's kind. That won't get him through the Games, but the alternatives are worse. _She glanced back at the Career alliance. Her alliance. Cato slept soundly, taking up a whole sleeping bag. Finnick had found a blanket and swaddled himself in it, though his stillness reminded her of a man curled up in death. Asleep, they both looked harmless. In reality, they were among the most dangerous humans in the universe.

Katniss focused on Clove. The girl had returned after a long stint of guard duty and crawled into a sleeping bag with Glimmer a few hours ago. _The last to come inside, _Katniss thought. _Which means she'll be sleeping for a while. __The District Eight girl is safe. For now. _


	27. Chapter 27 Gale

_Author's Note:_

_Katniss's and Gale's back-story changes a bit, as there was no Peeta in District Twelve to give Katniss bread when she was starving. This chapter has been altered to account for Katniss's survival at that time, and her first meeting with Gale has changed with it._

* * *

GALE

* * *

Gale woke to an empty sleeping bag.

His hands reached out instinctively as he stirred, seeking Katniss's warmth. He'd woken periodically during the night, startled by a branch crunched underfoot, or the wind whispering through the trees like Angel-song, to find Katniss curled up next to him, face pressed against his chest. Often, in those first few minutes, before he was really alert, certain scenarios had played out in his head. Himself, lifting a hand to stroke Katniss's cheek as if they really _were _lovers. The two of them, curled up against the cold stone of the cave in a romantic embrace. Katniss whispering in his ear as his lips found her jaw.

All fantasies of course. Practically figments of dreams. But it disturbed him to find himself alone in their shared sleeping bag when he woke. Alarmed, he lifted his head, hands searching for the hunting knife he'd managed to swipe from the Cornucopia. It took him a second to remember he'd left it on the stone ledge beside the sleeping bag. _Stupid, _he thought, slipping out of the sleeping bag. _How am I supposed to protect Katniss if I don't have a weapon? _

He paused, the last of his grogginess fading as he caught sight of Katniss, perched in front of the girls from District Eight and District Nine. Her usual braid trailed down her left shoulder, several strands of hair breaking free of the plaits as she watched over the injured tributes. Gale relaxed, picking up his hunting knife and sliding it into the belt that had come with his survival suit. Once he was situated, he ghosted over to where Katniss sat and laid his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped, braid swinging as her head whipped around. Her smoke-colored eyes widened.

"Startled?" he asked, a bit surprised by her reaction. He'd caught Katniss off-guard hundreds of times in the forests of District Twelve, but she seldom reacted so strongly to the surprise. _T__he Games must be stressing her out, _he thought, shuffling forward and taking a seat beside her.

"Didn't think you'd be up this early," she said, shrugging.

"Yeah, I guess." He paused, waiting for her to say something else. At this time of day in District Twelve, they'd either be hunting or bantering about the Games. And though the forest beyond their cave resembled the towering pines and colorful deciduous trees of autumn, the atmosphere felt different somehow. Dark. Dangerous. "Did I miss anything?" he asked, hoping her answer would give them something to talk about.

"No. Last night was quiet. The other teams must be hunting each other down. None of them have come here since before you came back from the Cornucopia."

He nodded. If there had been an attack in the night, he'd have heard the commotion. Or died. _But I can't die yet. I have to take care of Katniss. _His eyes slid back to her face. She wore the same expression she wore when hunting with her bow: stoic and unshakable. And if he hadn't known her as well as he did, he'd have missed the tension in her shoulders, the worry in the set of her mouth.

Without a thought, he threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. She glanced over, the stoic mask fracturing as her eyebrows shot up. He tensed, instinct warning him to drop his hand, then breathed in, refusing to move.

"Gale . . ."

"Do you remember the first time we met?" he said abruptly, hoping the memory would somehow make her more willing to accept the affectionate gesture.

Katniss hesitated, then looked down. "Of course I remember."

"It was raining," he said, calling back the memory as he cradled her hand in his. "It had been raining all day, and when I first saw you, you were soaked." He blinked slowly, the details coming back to him. He'd just come back after setting snares in the woods beyond the fence. That morning's rewards would've made a good meal by themselves, even if they didn't use the grain he'd received from taking out tesserae. Still, meat was valuable in District Twelve—all food was, but people prized meat because of its protein. Gale had gone straight to the market, hoping to barter off the rabbits he'd found for grain, fruit, or vegetables.

"I'd just traded one of my rabbits for two loaves of bread," he said, voice soft. In his peripheral vision, he saw Katniss look away. "I figured the bread would last longer, as long as the rest of the week if I traded well. On my way home, I covered the bread with my coat so it wouldn't get soggy in the rain." He remembered that vividly—the icy rain biting his skin like a rabid animal. Still, cold had weighed on his mind far less than hunger, so he'd used his jacket as a barrier between the bread and the elements. "I started heading back to the Seam, figuring my family would have a nice meal for once. And that was when I saw you."

"Sick and starving and alone," Katniss murmured. "I remember."

"That's right. And I thought: I don't _need _to help this girl. I shouldn't bother—my family needs this food too. That's the logical thing to think. You're loyal to yourself, then your family, and then, if you can afford it, your friends and acquaintances." It had always been that way. Always been all about _his _next meal, and _his _bartering skills, and _his _survival. Until he'd met Katniss. "I knew it was stupid. No one gives a free meal away in District Twelve, even the few who have money to spare. But then I wondered: what makes it right for me to live and eat well while that girl dies of starvation ten feet away? How can that be just? And the whole time, while I was thinking about that, I watched you wander down the street, a fistful of sodden baby clothes in your hand."

"I meant to sell them," she whispered, though he could tell from her tone of voice that she'd returned to that moment, that the cave they sat in had become invisible to her, too. "But no one would buy old baby clothes—they're not a necessity, and it had been a rough month all around."

He nodded. "If you'd seen me staring, you probably would've thought I was some sort of stalker. But the more I thought about, the more I wondered what would happen to you if I just walked away." Except he hadn't wondered, not really. He'd _known_. People in District Twelve seldom survived into adulthood. Starvation preyed on the young, the old, and the weak. And Katniss had been young then, younger than him. In a strange sort of way, it had been his duty to help her. "And I realized I didn't want to walk away," he continued, voice layered with intensity. His grip tightened around Katniss's hand. "I didn't want you to starve, so I walked over and gave you one of the loaves of bread I'd traded for."

He paused, then took a breath. "You didn't even say anything, at first. I think you were too shocked to understand it. I mean, no one gives out food. Of course it didn't make sense. So when I told you to keep it, you ran off like I'd tried to attack you or something."

Silence settled between them. He didn't have to mention how he'd gone around the Seam for days after that, hoping to see her again, to make sure she was alive. Didn't have to mention that he'd never found her until they'd met face-to-face in the woods months after that. And by then, her face had been full, and she'd gained enough weight that she no longer resembled the skeletal waif she'd been. She'd looked healthy, and agile, just like she did now.

Except now, her eyes radiated such piercing sorrow that it made his chest hurt. "What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

In a deliberate motion, she slipped her hand out of his and stood. "Gale, listen. This is the Intergalactic Games. Even if our team wins, that's no guarantee for _our _survival."

He grit his teeth, anger flaring underneath his skin. "You're wrong. You scored a _six, _Katniss. That's higher than any Earth tribute has ever scored before."

"And it only makes me a target," she hissed. Her eyes flickered to their sleeping team members. When she spoke again, she lowered her voice. "I'm trying to survive, Gale. And if we both live, that's great. But the chances of that happening are so slim, even the people of Panem are betting against us."

"That's not true."

"It _is _true. Gale—" She broke off, eyes snapping to the mouth of the cave. Instinctively, Gale quieted, surveying the area around their Sanctuary for danger. His hand found the hunting knife attached to his belt. The blade felt tiny in his hands.

Katniss's eyes narrowed. She picked up her own knife from where it sat at her feet. She jerked her chin toward the mouth of the cave, a silent gesture that meant he should follow, then started for the exit.

_No time to wake the rest of the team, _he thought. _Not that they'd be much good to us, with as few weapons as we have. _Gritting his teeth, Gale stepped into the sunlight.


	28. Chapter 28 Nightshade

_Author's Notes:_

_Again, we're going with an OC viewpoint for this chapter. I do apologize for that, but we needed this viewpoint—this chapter wouldn't work any other way._

* * *

NIGHTSHADE

* * *

Nightshade peered through the red and yellow leaves, watching the Earth Team's Sanctuary. As two tributes emerged from the cave, a seed of dread sprouted in her stomach. _I'm dead. We're all dead. We're caught. _

"Gale," said the girl, voice low. "On my left."

The man—Gale—obeyed, circling around his ally until he reached her left flank. In one hand, he held a knife—all purpose, with serrated steel at the base and a plain edge along the rest. The knife curved slightly at the end. Not great for stabbing, but it meant that even a glancing blow from the dull edge could cut. The girl held a knife of her own, much plainer than his.

Nightshade had never been in a situation where she'd needed to judge the quality of knives, but growing up with researchers for parents had made her observant.

"You think something's out here?" Gale asked, eyes shifting between rows of trees.

The girl nodded, then twirled her hand in a circle. Gale glanced around. _Interesting, _Nightshade thought. _They have a system of communication in place. But is it just between them, or does the whole group know it?_

She frowned, then repressed a wince as one of the leaves slipped off the top of her pile and skittered across its neighbors. They'd been watching the Earth Team's Sanctuary for most of the night. The sword-wielding blond who'd taken watch had spent half an hour at a time looking in one direction—a poor excuse for a lookout, even by her standards. But then, she supposed he'd probably been just as reliant on sound, given the time of night. It had taken nearly an hour to get this close to the enemy camp, and even then, they'd been observing for nearly two hours with few signs of life.

_Don't these people understand the value of working in shifts? _she wondered. Surely their mentors had taught them how to make an effective team. _Or have they? Maybe people who grow up on Earth are more competitive. _She frowned. Most of the time, she dismissed peoples' perceived differences of Earth culture and Martian culture. But now she wondered—even with so little landmass remaining to the blue planet, they had vast resources. Plenty of sunlight, fresh water, abundant plant life. Perhaps the abundance of resources meant that the people of Earth didn't _have _to function cooperatively—perhaps everyone could survive on their individual skills._ Later, _she reminded herself, tensing as another leaf skittered across the ground in front of her. _I can analyze Earth culture later._

Behind her, she heard a whisper of movement. Her heart jumped, hammering against her ribs with a beat that seemed to say: _danger, danger, danger_. Any of the other monsters in the arena could obliterate them. Most of them were much stealthier than humans. An instant of inattention could turn her from predator to prey.

"Nightshade."

Her fingers twitched. _Don't talk! _she wanted to yell. But yelling wasn't conducive to survival, so she said nothing. After a moment, something jabbed her between the ribs, making her jump. Her eyes flashed to the enemy tributes, but they seemed unaware of her movement. _Thank goodness. We're too far away to be heard. _"What?" she hissed.

Artemis cowered beside her, quivering under her pile of leaves. _That's probably why they keep falling off the pile, _Nightshade thought, as the thirteen-year-old spoke. "We should go."

"We can't go yet. They'll see us retreating." She said no more—Aledrix, the boy from Colony Nine, had suggested they send someone out to spy on the Earth Team. As humans, they were biologically identical, apart from minor deviations in their genetic code. That meant they used the same tools, the same resources. And in a game where starvation caused nearly as many deaths as the competition did, resources were everything.

"Hardly a weapon on 'em," said another voice, this one to her left. Nightshade bristled, then batted back her annoyance. Vex had volunteered to come on this espionage mission in the hopes that he'd be able to kill something. _The boredom must be wearing on him, _she thought, eyes never wavering from the Earth tributes.

"I recognize the girl," Artemis whispered after a moment. Her words sounded stilted, laced with fear. Artemis hadn't said much since the survivors had made it to the Red Men's underground Sanctuary. In fact, the little blonde girl hadn't said much at all until she'd volunteered to spy on the enemy camps. _Odder still the way she's acting, _Nightshade thought, feeling the girl trembling beside her. _Perhaps she's trying to make herself indispensable._

"I recognize her, too," Vex said. "She's the one who scored a six in training."

_Then why does she only have one knife with her? _Nightshade wondered. _Is it a lack of supplies, or are knives her specialty? And why only one knife, if that's the case? _

"Bet we could pick them off," Vex said after a moment.

"Quiet." _You're going to be the death of us. _"We came here to observe, not to fight."

"I'd say shooting them would benefit our team." The leaves concealing them stirred. Nightshade imagined him stroking the length of the bow he'd swiped from the Cornucopia. "See that guy? He's the one who kicked me in the ribs. Probably cracked one of 'em."

"Stop complaining," Nightshade said.

"Yeah, Vex. At least _you've_ got a bow," Artemis said. "I've only got a fishing spear."

The words surprised her. Everything she'd observed of Artemis suggested a quiet, shy girl. _But people act differently under stress. Her veins must be swimming with adrenaline now, preparing her for fight-or-flight mode. Her heart's racing. Her focus has narrowed to her enemies. She . . . _Nightshade forced herself to stop. _This isn't a research project. This isn't a research project. This isn't . . . __  
_

Their enemies paused. The girl glanced in their direction, eyes settling on the pit where they'd buried themselves. Nightshade tensed, closing her eyes as if that would keep the other girl from seeing her. _She scored a six. The Gamemakers obviously consider her a threat. We should run. _

Nothing happened. After a moment, Nightshade heard the girl speak. "Let's loop around the cave. If someone's trying to ambush us, they'll come from behind."

"Right," Gale said, following his teammate around the stony entrance of their cave.

As soon as they disappeared from sight, Nightshade spoke. "_Now _we can go. Stay quiet. Don't move too fast. Once we break the tree line, run straight for our territory." Part of her worried over the oxygen expenditure—they had enough for a couple more hours of espionage, but exertion would burn up the oxygen filters in their suits much faster. Walking would be easier on their air filters, but would leave them exposed to the aliens longer. _Not that it matters. As few supplies as we have, we'll die out before the Games are over. _

They withdrew, ghosting through the forest like Angels. The thought chilled her. _We are nothing like the Angels. We don't drive other people insane when we speak. _Those inhuman creatures had killed several of their team in the bloodbath, singing to them through barely audible, unholy lullabies.

Nightshade still remembered the sound of human screams.

_They can be killed, _she told herself. _Anything can be killed. Just remember that. _

They neared the edge of the forest, slowing as the silver grass of the Cornucopia stretched out in front of them. "Keep low," she said, still quiet, but not whispering as she had been before. "The grass will conceal our movement as long as we stay low to the ground."

"Sure," Vex muttered. "You know, if that kind of thing really worked, you'd think more people would hide in cornfields. Anyone with eyes will be able to see the grass moving."

"Stop being so negative," she snapped. "Unless you have a solution, don't talk."

Vex smirked. "Yes, because clearly the most important aspect of teamwork is _not _talking."

_It is when you're a sociopath, _she thought. She kept her mouth shut. Though Vex displayed all the classic signs of a budding serial killer, calling him such would probably offend him. Which, given what she'd gleaned of his personality, wasn't a good idea. Sociopaths only functioned like normal people on a basic level—any subtler nuances of behavior or conduct were the result of societal constraints and manipulation. Vex mocked her because he wanted to show dominance over her. To control her.

Like a lab rat in the hands of a scientist.

_But he can't. I'm too smart, and he knows it. So instead he mocks me, hoping it'll weaken my resolve and prove he can dominate me. _Her eyes slid over to Artemis. All the blood had seeped out of the girl's face, leaving it pallid. Under the leaves, Artemis had showed some signs of confidence. But now, crawling through the grassy field around the Cornucopia, she moved like a fugitive fleeing the martian Peacekeeping force. _Not surprising. She's young to be so traumatized. _

"Hey, Nightshade."

She glanced back, then realized Artemis had fallen into place at her side. "Yes?"

The girl's already soft voice dropped further, barely audible over the rustling of their passage. "Do you find something . . . unsettling about Vex?"

Nightshade glanced back and saw the boy trailing behind them. A grin spread across his face. The pit in her stomach deepened. "Yes. Don't talk about it while he's listening, okay?"

Fear flickered through the young girl's eyes; she looked away. "Oh. All right."

Nightshade said nothing more as they crossed into Red Men territory. She didn't want to admit that a member of her own team frightened her nearly as much as the Angels did.


	29. Chapter 29 Katniss

KATNISS

* * *

"They aren't very subtle, are they?" Gale muttered as the leaves whispered behind them.

Katniss stayed quiet for a moment longer, giving her enemies a few moments to escape. "They've never been hunting." She looked back, watching the Martian tributes disappear into the trees. They moved quietly, despite their inability to stalk without being seen. Katniss continued her circuit around the cave, peering through the trees for other threats that might have slipped in while their other competition had been watching. Years of watching the Games had trained her to remain vigilant—the Capitol audience loved nothing more than seeing tributes avoid one threat only to be taken out by another, subtler predator. And if a Neanderthal was waiting in the trees with a club, she wanted to be prepared.

"You know," Gale whispered, "you're lucky I understand you so well."

Katniss paused, wondering if the reminder was meant for the audience or because Gale meant it. It felt wrong not to know. Still, the Gamemakers would likely feature this conversation if there weren't any fights going on. _Of course they will, _she thought, irritated. _There's nothing better to talk about in the Capitol. _

Gale went on. "You think they noticed?"

She shrugged. "They wouldn't understand our signals." When she'd first heard human voices, she'd given Gale the same gesture she gave when she wanted to wait for a better shot while hunting. Her instincts were those of a hunter—she knew when to strike and when to stalk.

She figured information would be a lot more useful than getting rid of three people who would probably die on their way back to the Red Men's Sanctuary.

"One of them mentioned something about a bow," Gale said. "Maybe we could ambush them and try to take it."

Katniss froze, then continued forward. "Bows are meant for long-range attack. Even if I got a hold of one, it wouldn't help in a direct confrontation."

"But you still have your knife. You could use that."

She frowned, glancing into the mouth of the cave. "We'd need allies."

"You've got the whole Career alliance on your side. Why not take one of them?"

She shook her head. "I don't trust them."

"I don't either, but we're all on the same team here. And if they think they can benefit from going into the enemy camp—"

"I'm not leading anyone to their death for a few weapons. We can wait for the sponsors to send us something."

Gale sighed through his teeth. "Catnip . . ."

She fidgeted. He'd always called her Catnip back in District Twelve—it felt wrong to hear the nickname here, in this arena of death.

"If you're afraid of the Career pack, then it's better to have a weapon of your own. One you've specialized in."

She grit her teeth. "I'm not afraid of them. I just don't trust them." _I don't trust anyone. Except . . . _"What about Rue?"

"The little girl?"

She nodded.

"Katniss, not to question your judgment, but she seems a little . . ."

"Small? Yes. But we can use her size to our advantage. Gale, she can climb higher than I can. I've _seen _her—she practically flies through the trees. And she knows how to forage. She could scout ahead, looking for threats, and if we do get ambushed, she can get away and look for help."

Gale closed his mouth, working his jaw. After a moment, he sighed. "You really think bringing her is a good idea? I don't know if we can trust her any more than we can trust the Career pack."

"She won't betray us." How could she explain the kinship she'd felt with the younger girl—how a ten-minute conversation had made her trust the youngest tribute more than anyone besides Gale? How could she explain how Rue reminded her of Prim?

Gale considered her words for a moment. "All right. The three of us, then. When do you want to go?"

"I need to tell the Career pack I'm heading out on a mission. We should make them believe it's for reconnaissance—I don't want them thinking we just let our competitors go. We'll leave when the sun reaches the top of the sky." Shielding her eyes with her hand, she peered up at this world's sun. It glowed a soft blue, the color tainted by the atmosphere of the arena planet.

"All right. I'll make plans. You're going to tell Rue about it, right?"

She nodded, then headed inside the cave. Most of the others still slept, though Crya and Rosemary, the two injured girls, stirred restlessly. Belatedly, Katniss remembered her promise to watch over them while Peeta got some sleep. _Who else can I trust to keep them safe from Clove? _she wondered, looking around the Sanctuary. She immediately eliminated Cato from the list—district bonds went deeper than regular bonds, or so she'd always assumed. In school, she'd learned that even in the traditional Hunger Games, where everyone was competition, killing one's district partner was considered bad etiquette.

_Who else? _She looked over her choices. Glimmer was out—too friendly with Clove and too unbalanced to be trusted after her solitary trek through the other territories. Marvel might be an acceptable guard. He'd mediated alliance decisions among the Careers, including the one to bring her into the group. She'd keep him on her list of possibilities.

She knew little of Finnick and Aoife, but she remembered how Finnick had run off when they'd walked into an ambush. They'd lost several people on their way to the Sanctuary, and though she couldn't really blame him for running, his flight didn't sit well with her. And Aoife was practically a stranger—she hung back in the shadows, seldom drawing attention to herself. _She's still a Career. And if she's trying to lay low, she won't take well to being approached. _

She looked around. The redhead from District Five stirred the coals in their fire pit, trying to coax a bit of warmth from it. Katniss stifled her instinctive distrust—something about the girl just seemed . . . off to her. Perhaps it was the fox-like features that made her look sly, or perhaps Katniss's own instincts sensed something wrong with the girl. Either way, she moved onto the next option. Johanna and Thresh belonged to Rue's alliance—and consequently, her own sub-alliance—but she didn't know either of them well. She trusted Peeta to watch over the injured girls, since he'd been doing it already when she'd first woken, but he'd looked so exhausted when she'd taken over for him. No, he wouldn't function well without more rest.

_Maybe Beetee and Wiress, _she thought, discarding the notion almost as quickly. The pair had busied themselves working on a contraption that was supposed to ward off the Angels. Or something like that. Their explanation had grown too technical for her after just a few minutes, and she'd found an excuse to wander off. Despite their quirks, the two failed to stand out. She sighed. _Guess I'll ask Marvel, then._

"You look concerned."

She whipped around, instinctively reaching for her knife. When she saw Finnick looming over her, she forced her expression to go flat. "I wanted to check on our patients."

A faint smile found Finnick's lips. Katniss looked away, uncomfortable. Even with a sad smile, Finnick exuded charisma. Letting it influence her would only lead to trouble.

"You're worried, aren't you, Fire Girl? About Clove's suggestion."

She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. He sat cross-legged at her side, watching over them.

"Personally, I disagree with any plan that requires us to kill our own," Finnick said. "Even the most brutal captain never throws a man into the sea during a storm."

She said nothing, but the distrust she'd cultivated since yesterday lessened a bit. "Someone needs to watch over them. Gale, Rue, and I are heading to the Red Men's camp to see what sort of resources they've got."

Finnick nodded. "Probably wise. And you think three people will be enough to take a whole team?"

She scowled. "No. But taking more than three people eliminates any chance of stealth. Besides, wouldn't you rather risk three than six or seven?"

"Good point. Do try not to die while you're out—we'd hate to lose our best player."

Katniss stirred resentfully. "Just because I scored a six doesn't make me the _best._" All it had done so far was single her out for the competition.

"Perhaps not. But it does make everyone else _think _you're the best. A clever warrior knows that intimidation can accomplish nearly as much as a good sword." His eyes slid back to Cato, still asleep.

"I'm leaving in a couple hours, once everybody's awake. Someone will need to make sure Clove doesn't slit anyone's throats while I'm gone."

"Don't worry. I'll take care of our patients."

She frowned. "This is serious, Finnick. They're still part of the team. Unless they ask us to take them out of it—"

"Yes, yes, I get the argument. I'll keep Clove entertained. I don't expect any of the others to act on her suggestion unless something drastic happens."

_There's no way I'll be able to get through this game if I don't trust _someone_, _Katniss thought, frustrated. She stood, running her thumb across the hilt of her knife in a silent warning.

Finnick just grinned as she went deeper into the cave.


	30. Chapter 30 Rue

_Author's Notes:_

_Sorry about the late update. We try to update weekly, but with the end of the school semester, things have been pretty hectic. We hope this chapter makes up for it. We will try to be better about this._

* * *

RUE

* * *

"You want me to come with?"

Katniss nodded, her face blank, unreadable. "It'll be dangerous—more dangerous than staying here. If you don't want to go, you don't have to."

_She's so calm, _Rue thought. _Even though she's heading into enemy territory, she's not letting it get to her. _"I'll go." She wanted to prove to everyone that she could be useful despite her small stature.

"Good. Gather whatever you need and meet us at the cave entrance in an hour." Her expression soured a bit. "I'm going to tell the Career pack I'm heading out."

"Oh." Rue blinked. "Right." Sometimes, it was so easy to forget that Katniss had joined the Careers before they'd been sent to the arena. Though her skill with a bow had made her a coveted ally, the Careers had taken a hard hit to their pride by taking in someone from District Twelve. And since Katniss had never seemed content with her alliance, Rue wondered why she'd stayed.

_But now you're her ally, too, _she reminded herself. _She trusts you._

She hurried over to the place she'd slept last night, gathering up the supplies she'd grabbed or foraged since the Games had started. She gathered up half the berries she'd picked yesterday, folding a large leaf around them. Then, glancing around to make sure no one was looking, she slipped those into the tiny backpack she'd grabbed from the edge of the Cornucopia. The rest she left next to Johanna's sleeping bag. The District Seven girl stirred, eyes opening to slits, then closing again as she ascertained that there was no danger.

"Sleep well," Rue whispered. "I'll try to find you something good while we're out."

Johanna's hand twitched. She rolled away, drawing the sleeping bag tighter around her thin frame. Rue took a moment to wonder whether it was genetics or starvation that had made the other girl look so small despite being sixteen years old. Probably the latter. _She's almost as small as me, _Rue thought. Her eyes slid over to the axe laying next to Johanna's pillow. _But she's capable. And we'll have to leave enough people behind to guard the Sanctuary. _

Rue stood, scanning the area for anything else she could take with her without upsetting the others. When she found nothing, she walked over to the fire pit and sat next to Siobhan. "Good morning."

The girl's golden-brown eyes flickered to her face, then darted away. She shifted her weight, balancing on her the balls of her feet as she crouched beside the fire. "Hi," she said tersely.

Rue waited, hoping the District Five girl would say more. When she gave no further response, Rue decided to spark the conversation herself. "So, did you sleep well?"

"No." She stabbed at the coals with a blackened stick. Embers floated into the air, brushing up against the cave's ceiling before coming down as flakes of ash.

Rue waited another thirty seconds, crossing and uncrossing her legs. "I heard you were from District Five," she said. "What was it like?"

"Noisy."

"Noisy?" She tilted her face up, interested. "How come?"

"Because of the power plants."

"Oh." Rue nodded, though she couldn't really relate. District Eleven had been the opposite, producing plenty of raw material, but lacking industrial plants. "We mostly grow food in District Eleven. I used to work in one of the orchards."

Siobhan didn't reply. _Not very talkative, is she? _Rue thought, suppressing her impulse to criticize Siobhan's poor social skills. In her household, silence would have been construed as an ill-omen. The people of District Eleven communicated. They were all family. Yet this girl seemed perfectly content to stare at the fire and say nothing.

"You . . . don't talk much, do you?"

That generated a bit of a response. Siobhan tensed, then looked down. "No. I don't. Why would I?"

"To find out what's going on."

"I already know what's going on."

"Then to make friends."

"The more friends you have, the more often you have to go to their funerals when they starve to death."

Rue let out a breath, shoulders sinking. "But . . . Isn't it better to risk it and have people to lean on?"

Siobhan's eyes flashed to her face, glinting like the eyes of a fox. "We'll all be dead within the next few weeks. There's no point in changing things now."

Rue looked at her feet, deflating. _She's already given up. She's living and breathing, but she expects to die soon. She's resigned to it. _She drew her legs in, wrapping her arms around her calves and resting her chin on her knees. Her eyes started to sting, though whether that was from tears or from the smoke coming off the fire, she didn't know. _How many of us think like that? _she wondered. _How many of us just _expect _to die? _

"You don't believe me," Siobhan said—the first time she'd spoken without being prompted. "You still have hope that our team can win, and that, if we do, you'll be one of the few to survive to the end. But you're wrong. We were both doomed the moment they called out names during the Reapings. There's no one who can save us."

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to swallow back the misery. She would not cry in front of the cameras. "You're right," she whispered, her voice flat. "I don't believe you. I think you're giving up on this team too soon. And maybe we won't win. Maybe none of us will survive to tomorrow. But we have to try."

Siobhan met her gaze and held it. And though nothing in her posture gave it away, Rue saw the guilt settling over the other girl, weighing her down. When Siobhan finally looked away, she looked almost ashamed.

Rue stood. "I think we can win. We have some of the best players the Earth Team has had in years. Katniss and Gale, Johanna, Thresh. Even the Careers scored better than usual. I believe in this team."

A high-pitched ringing at the back of the cave interrupted her speech. The teleporter, placed by the Gamemakers to enable the transmission of sponsor gifts, glowed pale white, the metal base containing the energy left over from the trip. _One of our mentors is sending us something, _she realized, walking over to the device. Siobhan followed, quiet as a shadow.

The light faded, leaving behind several brown lumps. Vision spotted with afterimages, it took Rue a few seconds to realize those lumps were wrapped in paper.

"What is it?" Katniss asked, jogging from the mouth of the cave to the teleporter.

Rue knelt, picking up one of the bundles and smelling it. Her heart gave a little jolt as she recognized the scent, and she ripped the paper off to reveal a crescent-shaped piece of bread, sprinkled with seeds. "It's bread! From District Eleven!" _They heard me. The people back home heard what I said and sent this. _Her fingers curled around the precious loaf. _They believe in us._

"There's more," Katniss said, crouching next to her and unwrapping the next. As she peeled the paper away, Rue saw the greenish tint of the bread.

"What is that?"

"I don't know." She pulled the bread out of its sheath. "It's shaped like a fish."

"Probably from District Four," Gale said. "Seeing as they do the fishing."

Katniss tucked the piece of bread back into its paper, setting it aside. "It's probably for Finnick. We'll give it to him when we head out."

"Not surprising," Rue said. "Finnick's really nice for a Career."

Katniss and Gale exchanged a look above her head. Gale raised one eyebrow, shrugging. Katniss smiled as if she'd just heard something amusing. _Interesting, _Rue thought, filing that information away for later. _They work perfectly together. So why are they bringing me along to spy on the enemy team? Won't I throw off their rhythm?_

"This one from District Two," Siobhan said, holding up a dark, rectangular role. Her shoulders curled inward as if she feared the response her words would bring.

"Could be for either Cato or Clove," Katniss said, her eyes hardening. "They're both ruthless. They must have sponsors."

"What's in that last one?" Gale asked, pointing to the remaining bundle. Rue grabbed it and started unwrapping it. This loaf had a rougher texture, and looked as if its dough had just been dropped onto a baking sheet and left to cook.

"We have those in District Twelve," Katniss said, gingerly taking the biscuit from Rue's hands. Rue relinquished the loaf, picking up the seed-spotted bread from District Eleven. "Prim used to bake these when our tessera grain came in."

Their little group fell silent for a moment as Gale and Katniss looked at the biscuit. After a few seconds, Katniss wrapped it up again and tucked it into her bag. "It's got to be for us. We'll take it with us to eat while we're out."

Gale nodded once, accepting her decision without argument. Rue started to put her crescent-shaped loaf away, saving it for the trip, then paused, seeing Siobhan flake off from the group, head down.

_She's the only one who didn't get anything, _Rue realized, stepping around the others and jogging to catch up with the red-haired tribute. "Here," she said, tearing her bread in half and holding one piece out toward Siobhan. "Take this."

The girl's arms went rigid, her eyes widening. "I don't . . ." Abruptly, she turned away. "I don't take handouts."

"It's not a handout," Rue said, pushing the bread into Siobhan's hands. "You're part of the team, too. And . . ." She looked down. "You made me realize something really important today. You made me remember that I could still hope. You have as much right to this bread as I do."

Siobhan took the piece of bread, holding it delicately, as if she thought it would crumble in her hands. She swallowed, eyes alight with hunger and surprise. Then she clutched it to her chest, her arms shaking slightly. "Thank you."

Rue smiled, remembering the things she'd seen and heard since she'd been Reaped. Auntie Mae coming to visit her before the train had left. Peeta carrying his injured district partner back to the Sanctuary after the bloodbath. Gale taking the girl from District Eight to safety, even knowing she'd be dead within the next few days. "Sometimes, all it takes is a little bit of kindness to give you hope. So even if the odds are bad, I believe in us. I hope you can believe in us, too."

Siobhan met her gaze, then nodded sharply. "Maybe you're right." Her eyes flickered to Katniss and Gale. "Maybe we do stand a chance."


	31. Chapter 31 Gale

_Author's Notes:_

_Sorry about the long wait. Life got crazy and inspiration was not forthcoming. But anyway, we hope this chapter will make up for the long wait, and we will try to be better about updating, though life can be very unpredictable._

* * *

GALE

* * *

He'd been wrong about Rue—she _was _useful, despite her size.

"See anything?" Katniss asked, tilting her head back to look at the branches Rue balanced on. The tree towered above the rest, breaking through the canopy. A perfect lookout post. Knowing the Gamemakers, that had been the intention.

The girl pointed toward the Cornucopia, then slid through the boughs, her small body stirring the branches as she descended. When she neared the bottom, she grabbed a sturdy branch, dangled by her arms for a second, then dropped lightly onto the ground. "Two Robots near the edge of the Cornucopia. We could loop around the left side to avoid them, but that will put us on the edge of Angel territory."

"Not good," Gale muttered. His technically-illegal refusal to watch the Games had left him with few clues about the white-robed aliens, but he'd been in the Cornucopia when they'd killed the boy from District Five. The screams still echoed in his ears.

"Did the Robots look like they were moving?" Katniss asked.

Rue shook her head. "Not really. I think they're foraging."

Gale looked up. "Foraging? They're _Robots._ Do they even _eat_?"

Beside him, Katniss rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Gale. They may modify their bodies, but they're still . . . well, not human, but close. They eat meat and plants, just like us."

Rue nodded. "I've heard they eat bits of metal, too. Iron and stuff. But that might be a myth."

"So, are we going around the Cornucopia, or will we fight?" he asked.

Rue and Katniss exchanged a look. "We'll go around," Katniss said. "The Angels are probably out hunting or guarding their Sanctuary. We should be able to skirt the edge of their territory."

"And if we can't?"

"Then we die." She ran her thumb along the hilt of her knife, not mentioning the other alternative. Few tributes spoke of the Angels, but Glimmer's disjointed ravings indicated a far more dire fate than death: insanity.

Gale repressed a shudder. _They can take my life, but they won't take my mind, _he thought, shoving aside the disturbing images flashing through his head.

"Come on," Katniss said. She started forward, taking a path that would lead them away from the Robots without disrupting their course too much. Gale followed, moving through the undergrowth with the grace of a hunter. _Except this time you're not the hunter. You're the prey. _

He shook off the thought. He had to keep Katniss alive. He had to make it home to see Rory, Posy, and Vick. He had to live.

Something stirred in the bushes. Gale reached for a bow he didn't have, then cursed, grabbing the knife from his survival suit's belt. Katniss did the same, crouching down to make herself as small as possible. In tacit agreement, they crept forward.

The bushes stirred again, and a small, furry animal shot out, bounding over tree roots and rocks. A flash of silver streaked through his peripheral vision, shooting toward the creature like a laser. The object struck with a dull thud, and the creature—some sort of rabbit-mongoose muttation—collapsed in the dirt, dead.

"Nice shot," he muttered. Katniss smiled and pulled her knife out of the creature's back. The blood glistened in the dappled sunlight.

"Wow," Rue whispered. "I didn't know you could throw _knives_."

Katniss shrugged. "It's easier than using a bow," she said. She didn't mention the obvious trade-off: Throwing knives were inaccurate and one's range was restricted to a small circle. Unless you spent time practicing like Clove or Katniss, you'd never hit your target when you needed to.

Of course, Katniss never talked about her hunting except when she was with him. With such severe penalties for owning weapons, she'd never had the opportunity. It probably hadn't occurred to her that there was no point in holding that information back anymore.

Katniss picked up the carcass with two fingers, pinching the extra folds of fur at the base of the neck, just above the knife wound. "What should we do with it?"

_Cook it and eat it_, Gale thought. Despite the loaf of bread their sponsors had sent this morning, he hadn't had a decent meal since leaving the Capitol. Which wasn't really surprising, since the traditional Games had been about hunger, not fighting aliens.

"We could bring it back to the Sanctuary," Rue suggested meekly. "Clove keeps talking about how we don't have any food."

"Or we could eat it now," Gale said. "It's not a hard decision, Catnip. None of us trust the Careers. Why _should _we bring back food for them?"

She hesitated.

"Besides," he went on, sensing her indecision. "The Careers have eaten well all their lives. Let's see what happens when they start to get hungry."

"Gale . . ."

"I think we should eat it," Rue said, then drew back as if fearing a reprimand. "We might not even make it back. At least this way we'll know it went to good use."

Katniss's eyes went cool, flat. "All right. Gale, start a fire. Rue, you're on lookout. I'll attack anything that comes at us. We'll cook it fast, then get out of here before the aliens can come."

They split up according to task, spreading out. Gale started snapping low-hanging branches off trees, wincing at every splintering crunch. Katniss cleaned her kill, then started circling around the area, occasionally dumping branches onto the wood pile as she scouted around. When the pile looked big enough to make a decent fire, Gale picked a dip in the ground and stacked several rocks around the edge, hoping to conceal the firelight. Alone, starting a campfire would've been suicidal, but with three of them, they had enough people to fight and keep watch.

By the time he managed to start the fire—earning himself a few blisters because of the lack of good tools—half an hour had passed. By then, Katniss had speared their dinner with a stick and stuck it over the fire. "Help me find some rocks," she said.

"Why?"

"To make broth."

He stared at her. "Uh, Katniss—"

"That's how the Neanderthals make soup. They heat up rocks, then put them in a waterproof sack with water, meat, and vegetables. The rocks warm up the water so the soup cooks."

"Seems a little labor-intensive for broth," he said, a little surprised at her knowledge. Where had she learned this? _And why didn't she ever tell me? If I'd been Reaped instead, that might have been useful._

"Our trip will take a few hours at most. When we come back, we'll heat up a few more rocks. It's like reheating soup."

"And you know all this because . . . ?"

"Because, Gale, I actually _watch _the Intergalactic Games."

"I don't know why," he grumbled. "There's no way for the Capitol to _make _you watch it. They can't have Peacekeepers going to every door to check—there's not nearly enough of them." _Or too many of them._

"Gale."

"It's the Capitol's way of controlling us," he said fiercely. "They crush our hopes by putting all these people in the wilderness and showing that there's no way to survive. That's the only reason people don't leave the districts and go into the woods, even though they'd be much better off."

"Gale, don't talk like that."

"You know it's true. Don't look at me like that—you _know_."

She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, her eyes going cold. "Fine. Forget the broth. We'll just carry the bones back to the Sanctuary when we go back."

Pleased with his victory, he grinned. "Great. We'll plan on that."

She started to walk away, then paused. "There are better reasons to fight than defying the Capitol. I hate it, too, but we've got families. Kids. What would they do without us?"

"We could've done it, you know," he said, surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice. "Left the district. Lived in the woods. You and I—we could've made it."

Her head snapped up.

"I thought about it," he said, keeping his voice low so Rue wouldn't hear from the treetops "On Reaping Day, I almost asked you about it. We're old enough, experienced enough. We could've survived."

"What about Prim? What about Posy and Rory and Vick?"

"We could've brought them with. They're practically our kids anyway. They—" He broke off, took a steadying breath. "I almost asked, but then I thought: what are the odds, really, that either of our names will be drawn? I mean, yeah, we've both taken out tesserae ever since we turned twelve, but so has practically every other kid in the Seam. Plus, there are plenty of kids in town whose names are put in the bowl because it's mandatory. The odds _were _in our favor, Katniss, and we still lost."

She looked at him, lips parted slightly as if she wanted to speak but had no idea what to say.

"We could've made it," he whispered. "We could've been a family out there in the woods. You and I—"

"Gale, stop."

"You know that's how it would've happened. If the Intergalactic Games didn't exist, that's where we'd have ended up. We would've _finally _had a chance to—"

"To what, Gale?" she demanded, her hands tightening into fists. "To build a log cabin and starve in the winter because we don't have any tessera grain? To crawl into a cave and hide until the people in the Capitol come to slaughter us? To reach the edge of Panem and dive into the ocean, hoping we can swim to the nearest island?"

He jumped to his feet. "We could have _lived_!" he exploded, throwing his hands in the air. "We could've been free! We could've had a future! But now we're playing a game of death for the Capitol's enjoyment, and it's all my fault because I didn't think your name could get drawn."

She sucked in a shocked breath, looking as if she was about to yell. And then she sighed, wrapping her arms around her torso as if trying to hold herself together. "That's why you volunteered, isn't it? Because you felt guilty for not predicting the unpredictable."

He froze, breath catching. _Guilt? _he thought. _She thinks this is about _guilt_?_

And then he doubled over, body shaking with laughter as that sunk in. Katniss stared at him, disturbed, but her shock only made him laugh harder. "You don't get it," he gasped between fits. He drew a sharp breath between his teeth, then stood before bowing to the laughter again. "You really think I volunteered because I felt _guilty_?" He let out another bark of laughter, followed by a low chuckle.

Her eyebrows knit together. "Didn't you?"

He shook his head. "Katniss, I volunteered because I can't stand the thought of going on without you. That's what love _is_."

"You don't love me."

"You're wrong."

"If you loved me, you would never have volunteered!" she shouted. "You would have stayed in District Twelve to take care of Prim! You would've moved on! _That's _what I wanted. Not this." She turned away. "I'm sorry, Gale. But I don't love you like that."

He flinched, his knees giving out. He staggered several steps, then collapsed. "Katniss, I . . ."

"Guys," someone called from above, voice raised with alarm. Through the haze of misery, it took him a moment to identify the voice as Rue's. "We've got trouble."

"What is it?" Katniss asked, looking up.

"The Robots heard us. They're coming."


	32. Chapter 32 Katniss

KATNISS

* * *

"They're coming."

Rue's words sliced through her frustration, leaving behind a vast, blank space in her chest. _Stupid! _Katniss thought, exhaling through her teeth. _Stupid. All I've done is draw attention. _She cursed under her breath, grabbing the knife from her belt. "Gale, cover me," she ordered, already heading in the direction Rue was pointing. When she heard no footsteps behind her, she looked back.

Gale knelt in the grass beside the fire, staring blankly in her direction. _Not good, _Katniss thought, feeling a stab of guilt. Gale continued to stare, lips parted, shoulders slumped. _Of course I'd say something destructive just as we're about to be attacked. Naturally. _"Gale, come on. This isn't the time to break down. We've got company."

"You don't love me at _all_?" he asked, as if he couldn't fathom the idea. Katniss hesitated, unable to think of a reply. He was her best friend, her hunting partner, her ally. But she didn't love him romantically. Why couldn't he understand that?

How could he have come to believe in the charade they were performing for the Capitol?

"Katniss," Rue called, her voice rising with fear. "They're close."

"We've got to climb," she said. Facing two Robots on her own would only get her killed. If Gale wouldn't fight with her, she'd have to hide. _That's what I'm good at, _she thought._ I'm a survivor. _

She grabbed Gale's sleeve, yanking him to his feet. "Come on. We have to get out of their range."

His expression hardened. He ripped his arm from her grasp. "No."

_No? _She stopped. Studied his face for a moment. Then, quietly, she said, "You're planning to fight them, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "I won't run. That's not who I am."

"Gale, you'll get yourself _killed._"

"Have you ever considered that might be what I wanted?"

She gaped.

Gale let out a frustrated sigh. "You don't love me. Fine. But don't think you can order me around after kicking my legs out from under me."

Guilt pooled in her stomach. "Gale . . ."

"Run, Katniss. Run and hide. That's what you're good at."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, latching onto the surge of anger to push aside the guilt. But Gale didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed his knife and stalked in the direction of the Cornucopia. _He's really going to fight the Robots, _she realized, hands curling into fists. _When did he get this reckless? _

"Fine," she said. "I'll fight, too. But you're going to get us both killed." She followed after him, her gait shifting, becoming predatory. As she passed the tree where Rue acted as lookout, she paused. "If we die, climb as high as you can and try to make it back to camp. Tell Finnick first—he's got a lot of influence over the other Careers, and he's more reasonable than Cato. If you can't find Finnick, talk to Marvel."

Rue nodded, already climbing higher up the tree. _I should be climbing, too, _Katniss thought. _That's the smart thing to do. Only a fool faces a stronger opponent head-on. _

She hurried to catch up to Gale. Together, they moved through the undergrowth, setting aside their argument in favor of a more familiar pattern. Once she caught up, she took the lead, her smaller body slipping easily between trees. Gale shadowed her, keeping close enough that she could feel his body heat creeping across her back. He didn't make a sound.

When she saw a glint of metal in the dappled sunlight, Katniss pressed her body against the side of a tree, gripping her knife. All her senses centered around the Robot as it rustled in the bushes. _Come on, _she thought. _Just a little closer. _

The Robot turned its head, mismatched eyes zeroing in on where she and Gale hid. A green light blinked somewhere on the Robot's body, and Katniss shifted, her hunter's instincts commanding her to move. The green light expanded, shooting toward her and burning everything it touched as it streaked through the undergrowth. _Have to keep moving, _she thought, throwing herself to the ground as a second bolt shot through the air above her. This one struck the tree she'd been using for cover. Bits of bark flaked off the trunk, settling in the dirt.

"Damn it," Gale hissed behind her. "It's got a cannon."

Katniss rolled, then crouched behind a medium-sized rock. Another bolt flashed in her peripheral vision, striking a bush behind her. Smoke rose from the burning leaves, fire rising from the center of the bush. _If I get hit, that's what's going to happen to me. _

Instinct had her rushing forward, knife in hand. The Robot's bright blue eye settled on her face, glowing with an almost human look of annoyance. The green light flashed again, and she threw herself to the side, wincing as the laser grazed her skin. The smell of burnt flesh drifted up to her nose, making her eyes water.

She leapt forward, crashing into the Robot's torso. Her inertia knocked them both to the ground. The impact resonated in her bones, a dull ache that spread through her whole body. She'd have bruises from where her softer body had struck the metal structures of the Robot's torso.

A screech pierced the air, shrill and demanding. Katniss shifted her grip on the knife and brought it down, burying the tip in the Robot's throat. Circuits broke apart, wires coming free as she jerked the knife to the side, but the creature kept fighting, using its greater weight to throw her to the side. She rolled again, jumping to her feet even as the Robot readied its laser cannon.

A figure moved in her peripheral vision, blurring with speed. _I'm dead, _she thought, stumbling to the side and disrupting her momentum. She took a hard fall, landing on an exposed tree root. All the air rushed out of her lungs.

"Hey!" Gale snarled, suddenly standing above her. She looked up, too stunned to move, as he grabbed the Robot's arm and twisted, wrenching the creature's joint. It screeched again, raising its cannon a beat too late. Gale yanked its arm in the wrong direction, bending the metal hinges, ripping apart vital wiring. Oil flowed down the alien's arm, black like ink.

Still gasping for breath, Katniss buried her knife in the creature's ankle, spraying oil all over her gloved hands. Another inhuman scream tore through the air. _Every alien in the arena will hear that, _she thought fuzzily. _We're as good as dead._

With two damaged joints, the Robot staggered backward. Gale shoved its shoulder, then followed it to the ground, ramming his knife into its chest. The alien's screech wavered, like a candle in the wind. Then, finally, the Robot fell silent, body twitching as it lost functioning.

Gale stood, turning away from her. The lines of his body seemed more defined than they had a few minutes ago, as if killing the alien had given him some indefinable presence. She looked up. Blood and oil slid down her arm, making her fingers slippery. A great silence pressed down on them, the forest hauntingly silent.

"Watch out!" Rue shouted from above. Katniss looked up and saw Rue looking down at them, her eyes wide with fear. _Watch out for what? _she wondered, feeling curiously numb. She looked back to Gale, hoping he could provide some insight.

A flash of green shot through the air, coming from their makeshift campsite. The laser seemed to move in slow motion, burning through leaves and twigs as it shot through the air. Katniss lifted her hand, opening her mouth to call out a warning.

The bolt struck Gale in the shoulder before she could say a word.


End file.
